


A Classic Literature Professor and An Art Teacher

by junior_writes



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Art teacher Simon, Bisexual Simon Snow, Blind Date, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Literature Professor Baz, M/M, Matchmaker Penelope Bunce, New York City, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TW- alcoholism, angst? never heard of it, idk where this story is going tbh, just buckle in and enjoy the ride kids, plot? dont know her, soft snowbaz, this fic is sweeter than my coffee i stg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junior_writes/pseuds/junior_writes
Summary: What do you get when you cross an art teacher who's also a dog dad, a classic lit professor who loves blonde haired boys, and a nosy best friend who likes to play matchmaker?You get a soft fic with lots of fluff and romance... like this one. You should read it. Or not. I'm not your mother. But it'd make me very happy :)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 66
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter 1

BASILTON 

“Basil.” 

I don’t look up from my work, responding after swallowing my food. “Bunce.” 

“Let me set you up with someone.” I’d be lying if I said I’ve met someone more perseverant than Penelope Bunce. She’s sitting across from me at my desk, arms crossed over her chest, her knee furiously bouncing, causing my desk to rock. She’s been pestering me about setting me up on a blind date for a while now, even more so since she found out I was gay. The conversation was one that makes me cringe every time I think about it. It went something along the lines of:

“Basil, let me set you up with someone. I know like four girls you’d make a cute couple with.”

“No, thank you.” 

“Why? Do you already have a girlfriend?’”

“No, Bunce.”

“Then why?”

“Women are not exactly my cup of tea.”

“Not your cup of tea?” She had gone silent for a bit, I could hear the gears turning in her head. “Wait! You’re gay! Oh my god, Basil, now you _have_ to let me set you up with someone! I know the perfect guy for you!” 

Her nonsense has been going on for over a month now. I wouldn’t exactly consider Bunce a friend. She’s really the only coworker who has the courage to try to make amiable conversation with me. She’s the only one who looks past the cold exterior I put up- courtesy of living with my father- and just sees me as another young professor. Bunce and I are both academic prodigies. Either way, I wouldn’t really consider Bunce a friend, per say, but she is the only coworker I can deal with, and whose presence doesn’t entirely bother me. 

“Bunce, I don’t need you meddling in my love life.” I still don’t look up at her. I’ve learned that if I don’t make eye contact with her, she’ll eventually leave me alone. 

“C’mon, Basil, I swear I have the perfect guy for you. His name is Simon Salisbury, he’s been my best friend since middle school, and, lucky for you, he likes guys. Look, I’ll show you a picture.” I look up at her when I know she’s not looking at me. She’s pulled out her phone, furiously swiping until she finds the picture. She slides her phone across my desk in my direction, an expectant look on her face. I raise an eyebrow and take her phone. On it is, dare I say, the most beautiful human being I have ever seen. There’s a candid photo of her friend on his Instagram. He’s in what seems to be Washington Park. He has floppy golden curls ruffled on the top of his head, the sides of his hair shaved down. There are freckles splattered across his face, like some sort of abstract painting. His eyes are blue, lighter than the ocean but darker than the sky. He has a sharp, defined jawline, yet you can tell he has soft cheeks. His skin is golden, like light shining through honey. He’s laying back on a picnic blanket, propped up on his elbows. He has long legs, broad shoulders, yet a slender body. His smile is wide, perfectly straight teeth gleaming. It’s a sincere smile, like he’s truly having the time of his life. He’s everything I’d want in a man, and more. I can feel the positive energy radiating off Penelope, she can tell that I’m interested. 

“A-ha! I knew you’d like him! So will you _please_ let me set you up with him?” She’s practically pleading, her hands intertwined and her elbows on my desk.

“And what’s in it for me?” 

“Um, you go on an awesome date with an amazing guy who could potentially be your soulmate?” She replies, looking hopeful. I give her a dead stare and raise an eyebrow. “Fine, I’ll give Simon my debit card and dinner, or whatever you do, will be on me.” I drag out my silence before I answer, toying with her emotions for a bit. 

“Okay, I’ll go on a date with your friend. But-“ Before I can finish, Penelope jumps out of her seat, and practically leaping over my desk, I’m nearly knocked out of my chair by her embrace. 

“Yay! You’re really gonna like Simon!” She tightens her grip around me then let’s go, the smile of an eager child across her face. 

“You didn’t let me finish, Bunce. Tell your friend to meet me at Craft on 19th and Park at seven on Sunday, alright. Make sure he’s on time. You owe me one, okay? I’m only doing this to get you off my back. Also, partially, because your friend is really cute.” I’m waving my finger at her. 

She begins to leave, walking backwards towards the door, both arms extended outward, her fingers pointing at me. “You won’t regret this, Basil.” She turns away, a little skip in her step as she walks out the door. 

SIMON 

Penny knocks furiously at the door. I know it’s Penny because she always knocks in the same rhythm. Three knocks, a pause, two knocks, a pause, then one knock. It’s a thing she and I came up with when we were kids. When I’d have my moments, Penny was the only one I could really talk to, the only one I would ever want to talk to. She came up with the knock so I wouldn’t have to tell anyone to go away. 

I don’t know why she doesn’t just come in. She has a key. She made me give her a key when I first moved in. _What if things go bad and then you can’t open the door, Simon? Give me the damn key,_ she had said. Typical Penny. I stand from the table, drawings sprawled over the glass surface. I open the door and Penny comes barreling in, frizzy curls falling out of her messy bun. She has her bag slung over her shoulder, her lab coat peeking out of it. 

“Pen, you know you don’t have to kno-”

“Simon, I have the perfect guy for you.” She cuts me off as she throws her bag on the couch, leading to the fridge and taking out some iced tea. 

“Penny, I’ve told you, I don’t need you to set me up with anyone,” I say as I take out two glasses from the cupboard. She pours out the iced tea, taking a glass into her hand. 

“C’mon, Simon. Besides, I owe you for setting me up with Micah,” she says as-a-matter-of-fact-ly. 

“Penny, Micah broke up with you ‘cause of long distance.”

She stares blankly for a second, but then shakes her head. “That’s besides the point. And, like, I may have already asked him, and he said yes, so like you already have a date, this sunday, at Craft, on 19th and Park,” she says the last part quickly, as if to confuse me.

“Penny! You asked someone out for me without even telling me?” I raise my voice slightly, only to put an emphasis on how uncomfortable I feel. 

“Relax, Simon,” she says all nonchalantly, making her way to the couch. She sits down and props her feet on the coffee table before continuing, “It’s not like I went up to some stranger on the subway and went ‘Hey, do you happen to like guys? Cuz I know someone great for you.’ I asked my coworker. He teaches english literature, he’s taller than you, and he’s got black hair down to his shoulders. You can even google him, his name is Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” I roll my eyes at her as I pull out my phone. I type in _Basilton Grimm-Pitch NYU_ into the search bar, and lo and behold, his entire academic profile pops up. I scroll through his profile. He is rather handsome, and from what his profile says, he has a long list of achievements. He graduated valedictorian from both high school and college, has written multiple interpretations of classics that have been given awards, and he seems to be quite the LGBT activist. Impressive. 

“Okay, tell me about this date.” 

BASILTON 

**Sunday, Date Night**

I’m always early when it comes to dates. Something about getting there early to assert my dominance. That’s a lie. I like to leave the impression that I’m punctual. It’s 6:45 now, and I’m sitting at the bar, waiting for Simon. The reservation is made for 7:15, giving him a grace period. I don’t know what to expect, Penelope never told me anything about him. _It’s part of the surprise, Basil, that’s the whole point of a date-- you have to get to know each other._ Bullshit. Anyways, I’m sitting on a stool at the bar, a scotch on the rocks in my hand. I don’t know why I ordered it, I usually only drink scotch when I’m nervous. Am I nervous? I don’t think so, I only agreed to this date to get Bunce off my back. I keep eyeing the door, waiting for Simon to walk through the door. I decide to look around the restaurant to distract myself. The restaurant carries a masculine-minimalist aesthetic, with Edison bulbs forming constellations across the ceilings. The tables and surfaces are all made of concrete, leather, terra cotta, and what looks like unprocessed steel. It gives off a relaxed feeling, yet everyone is dressed in mixes of business casual and formal. 

I look down at my watch. 6:58. I turn my attention back to the door when I see a mop of blond curls come through. He’s on time. He looks at the host standing at the front and says something. The host points at me while also taking Simon’s coat and handing it to the coat check. Simon looks around until he finds me. I quickly try to make myself look relaxed, uninterested even, as he walks in my direction. 

“Basilton?” He asks me between breaths. He has a small smile on his face, yer I stand up from my stool and throw a bill onto the bar counter, my drink still half-full. 

“You must be Simon. Penelope’s told me nothing about you,” I respond, a hint of sarcasm in my voice to give off a relaxed attitude. Simon chuckles lightly, his laugh revealing a full smile. His smile is beautiful. If you were to embody a field of daisies into one human feature, it would be Simon’s smile. “Well, lucky for us,” he adds, looking at me, “we’re on a date, which gives us the perfect chance to get to know each other.”

I extend an arm, signaling for him to start walking. “Shall we, then?” I raise two fingers at the host, letting him know we’re ready for our table. Simon and I follow the host to our table, a small booth in a corner of the restaurant. Simon and I sit across from each other, smiling at the host as he hands us our menus. After a minute of examining the menu and awkward silence, a waiter approaches our table. 

“Good evening, gentlemen. My name is Carter, I will be your server tonight. May I start you off with anything to drink, perhaps?” He has a leather lined notepad in his hand, expectantly glancing at the two of us. 

“Yes, please. I’ll have a glass of your Nebiollo. Would you like some wine, Simon?” I ask, glancing up from my menu. 

“Um, no thank you- I don’t drink,” he responds without looking up from the menu. “I’ll just have a glass of iced tea.” He looks up at the waiter, giving him a soft smile. 

“Very well, I’ll be right back with your drinks.” The waiter takes the drink menus before leaving us to our corner. 

“You don’t drink?” I can’t imagine not drinking. Not that I’m an alcoholic or anything; it’s just that I was raised in a home where my parents had a glass of wine every night with dinner. My father always had a glass of whiskey while working in his office. Since I turned 21, I haven’t been to a dinner with family friends without a glass of wine. It’s a norm I can’t seem to get out of habit. 

“Nah, there’s some deep-rooted daddy issues as to why. But I guess that isn’t really proper conversation for a first date, is it?” He lets out a light laugh. It’s like everything with this man is funny or laugh-worthy. I don’t know if I like it. I think I do. We make casual conversation. He tells me about his job. He’s an elementary school art teacher, primarily working with third, fourth, and fifth graders. His eyes light up when he talks about his students, how they all tell him he’s their favorite teacher. I tell him about how I never had an art class growing up.

“What do you mean you’ve never had an art class?” I can hear the genuine shock in his voice. 

“My parents sent me to a very prestigious boarding school since I was six, they never really cared for art.”

“Boarding school? Like, leave home in the fall, not talk to any family for months, go home for the summer, then repeat?”

“Yes, exactly. I went to Watford, up in New Hampshire.”

“That’s rough.” I laugh at that, his casualness makes me feel at ease. He continues on, telling me about his mother. Her name is Lucy, and she lives in Long Island with his grandmother, but she owns a bakery not far from Central Park. He tells me about his summer job there, how he learned to make different kinds of desserts and baked goods. 

“Hey, maybe I can bake something for you sometime,” he says casually. _Sometime._ He wants this to last? I think I do. I’ve never met someone as lively and animated as Simon, but some part of me knows I want this to last. “That sounds nice,” is all I can manage to respond. Soon enough, the waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order. We continue casual conversation, mentioning hobbies and likes and dislikes. Simon tells me about growing up in Long Island, and I tell him I grew up in Upstate New York. He argues I didn’t _really_ grow up there, because I spent so much time at boarding school. I suppose he’s right. Our food soon arrives, and we eat in momentary silence. I notice Simon is a fast eater. The man eats like he’s never eaten before. 

He swallows the bite of food before saying, “Y’know, I’ve never heard the name Basilton. Where’s it from?” He looks curious, like a puppy looking at a butterfly. 

“England. My mother’s parents moved here in their early adulthood, before they had my mom.”

“That’s cool. I bet you even have some fancy middle name, too.”

“Basilton _is_ my middle name.”

Simon nearly chokes on his drink. “ _Really?_ What’s your first name?”

“I feel like if I tell you, you’ll laugh at me.”

He holds back a giggle. “No, I promise I won’t.”

“Fine then," I hesitate for a second. "It’s Tyrannus.”

He snorts, immediately bringing his hand up to his mouth to cover his smile. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was expecting. And here I was thinking having Snow for a middle name was weird.” 

“Tyrannus is a family name, but no one actually calls me that. My mother insisted on it, says she wants me to stay ‘connected to my British roots,’” I pause briefly. “Wait, your middle name is _Snow?_ ”

“Yeah, my mom says everyone should have a weird middle name. I’ve gotta say, though, Basilton is a long name.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “People usually call me Basil.”

“Meh, I don’t really like that either.” He pauses for a brief moment, looking pensive. “I’m gonna call you Baz. Yeah, Baz suits you. That’s your new nickname,” he says with a smile. 

“Baz?” I ask, getting only a nod in response. “Okay then, but I get to call you Snow.”

“I usually prefer Simon, but I guess I can make an exception, only for you.” _Only for me._ Christ, this man is making me feel things I haven’t felt for someone in a while. We finish our meal, topping off with a dessert. I order an apple tart, while Simon orders a slice of cherry cheesecake. Simon practically vacuums up the dessert.

Soon enough, the waiter comes around with our check in hand. “Gentlemen, hope you found everything up to par?” Simon and I both nod. “Excellent,” he continues. “Here is the check, no rush.”

I go to grab the check, but Simon stops me, holding a card in his hand. He waves it lightly while saying, “Courtesy of Penny.” I didn’t actually think Bunce would live up to her promise. Simon hands the waiter the tab. When the waiter comes back, Simon pockets the card then turns back to me. “Up for a walk?”

We walk about two blocks down to Union Square Block, the golden lamp posts illuminating the walkway. Simon walks close to me, telling me anecdotes about his childhood, mentioning how he met Penelope. 

“We were eleven. She had frizzy purple hair and pointy cat-eye glasses to match. She wore those ridiculous boot-Converse things, a plaid skirt, and I fuzzy sweater, even though it was early September and boiling hot out. She came up to me and said, ‘Hi, my name’s Penelope Bunce, I just moved here from Maryland, and you look like you could use a friend, so here I am, your new best friend.’” He looks down, a reminiscent smile on his face. “I never questioned her. I just kind of went with it, and here we are, fifteen years later, and she’s setting me up with amazing guys.” He turns to look at me, blue eyes piercing directly into my soul. The night sky isn’t doing his eyes justice. 

“Penelope seems like a great person. She’s the only coworker I like, not that I would ever tell her that, I’d never hear the end of it.”

He laughs at that. “Yeah, that’s Penny.” We continue walking in silence for a while, when I notice Simon take his hand out of his coat pocket. He’s looking down at his hand. We’ve been walking pretty close to each other, and our hands are now merely inches away from each other’s. I can sense the hesitation. _He wants to hold my hand._ I look up at his face-- his eyes still angled down-- then back at our hands. I take hold of his hand, closing the space between them. His hand is surprisingly warm, I begin to wonder if he had a hand warmer in his pocket. He’s a righty; I can tell by the callous on his ring finger. An artist’s hand. We continue walking, not saying much, our hands still intertwined, simply enjoying each other’s company. I watch as Simon glances at his watch. 

“Um, I have to be at work early tomorrow. My place isn’t far from here. Walk me there?” He asks, a questioning look on his face. He proceeds to walk out of the park, his hand still holding onto mine strongly. I memorize the route we’re taking, part of me knows I’ll definitely be making this trip often. We reach a brownstone on the corner of a quiet street, something only few are lucky to find in the city. Simon turns to face me.

“I had a really good time tonight, Baz. Thank you.” He’s still holding onto my hand, seemingly not wanting to let go. “Um, I know this might be too soon, so stop me if I’m going too far or too fast for you. But, um, I really want to kiss you. I guess I’ve kinda wanted to do that since I first saw you.” He’s staring at me, ocean eyes scanning every inch of my face. He’s standing maybe one foot away from me, and it’s at this distance that I notice that I’m taller than him, by at least three inches, that is. He’s glancing at my eyes, then my lips, then back to make eye contact. 

It takes everything in me to muster up a response. “Kiss me, then.” And with that, Simon’s lips are crashing into mine. But the kiss isn’t rough; infact, it’s affectionate and careful, like he’s afraid he might break me. His lips are soft and plump, and they taste like cherries. Simon’s warm hand is at the back of my neck, under my hair, and I have mine pressed up against his cheek. His tongue is poking at my lip, asking for permission. I give it to him. There’s passion in the way Simon kisses, as though each kiss he gives might be his last. After what feels like an eternity, but not long enough, Simon breaks our connection, himself slightly out of breath. 

“Let’s do this again, shall we?” I don’t know if he means that seductively, but it makes me swoon inside. He gets on his tip toes and kisses me on my cheek quickly before turning to walk into his apartment. My lips are still buzzing, and I feel like an electric current has run through my cheek where he left the kiss. _Goddammit, Penelope,_ I think to myself, _you were right; I think I’ve just found my soulmate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tee-hee I wrote an AU. I like the idea of a life in the city for our boys. I decided to have the setting be in the states and have Simon, Baz, and Penny be american (along with everyone else) cuz i don't want to write any cultural inaccuracies, and I'm as american as it gets so... yeah.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing. 
> 
> Also Craft is a real restaurant, I spent way too much time, more than i'd like to admit, researching it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, readers! Hope everyone had a great holiday season. Just wanted to say that my schedule is super hectic at the moment, so getting time to write has been really hard, but I'm trying my best cuz I really like this story and I want to write as much of it as possible. Anyways, enjoy reading <3

BAZ

I’m on the bus back home when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.

 **Snow (Sunday, 11:46pm):** I had a lot of fun tonight :) 

**Me (11:47pm):** Me, too

 **Snow (11:47pm):** Are you home yet?

 **Me (11:47pm):** Not yet, still on the bus

 **Me (11:48pm):** Why?

 **Snow (11:51pm):** Just making sure you get home safe

 **Snow (11:52pm):** The late-night streets of New York aren’t safe for a handsome guy like you ;)

I smile to myself. _Handsome guy like you._ He’s such a sap.

 **Me (11:54pm):** Don’t worry Snow, I may have not taken art classes in elementary school, but I was required to take self-defense as a physical education requirement. 

**Snow (11:56pm):** Glad to know you can defend yourself. 

I arrive at my loft, taking the elevator up to the third floor. I enter the foyer, tossing my keys onto the table next to the door. I pull my phone out before I hang my coat up in the closet. 

**Me (Monday, 12:02am):** I just walked into my place, you can rest now. 

**Snow (12:03am):** Thank god. I’m finally at peace

 **Me (12:04am):** Funny

 **Snow (12:06am):** Are you busy saturday?

 **Me (12:07am):** No not as of now

 **Snow (12:08am):** How ‘bout a second date? Something early, say 2? My treat.

I try to hide a smile, butterflies fluttering in my stomach. 

**Me (12:10am):** Sounds like a plan 

**Snow (12:15am):** Great I’ll let you know where

 **Snow (12:15am):** Good night Baz :)

 **Me (12:16am):** Good night, Snow

He doesn’t respond. I plug my phone into the charger and leave it on my nightstand. I go to my office and open up my laptop, trying to get some of my students’ midterm papers graded. I’m reading over the pages, my eyes mindlessly going over the words. I can’t focus, my mind wrapped around the thought of tonight’s date. The way Simon eats, like every bite he takes is better than the last. The way his hand felt in mine. Thin fingers, right ring finger with a bump from overuse, soft palms, warm, but not sweaty or clammy, but rather comforting. The way he kissed me. That thing he did with his chin, pushing it upward to get a better grip of my mouth. How his mouth tasted sweet, like cherries and peppermint. 

I save my work and shut my laptop, figuring that I won’t get any work done at this rate. I’m so whipped. I’ve never been on a date like this before. Mind you, I’ve had my fair share of wonderful dates, or relationships I thought would turn into something serious, but those all took work. This is the first time someone has really left me wanting more. This is the first time I haven’t been able to properly focus after a date. The first time I couldn’t get someone out of my mind after the first date. I finish getting ready for bed and head back to my room, blue eyes forever on my mind.

SIMON 

My phone rings as I walk to the subway. I pull it out of my pocket and see it’s Penny, an old photo of the two of us on the screen-- it’s one from high school, after my sixteenth birthday (she insisted we have matching contact picture for each other on our phones, and she chose that one). I swipe to answer, bringing the phone up to my ear. “Good morning, Penny,” I answer casually. I already know what this conversation is about. 

“Simon! Tell me everything! I want to know absolutely everything!” she blares into the phone, the tiny speaker practically vibrating against my ear. 

“Well, I’m walking to the subway right now, I’m a little early, but that’s okay, I guess. I finished grading all the kids’ artwork early yesterday. Oh, I had a really good bagel this morning. Cinnamon raisin, my favorite kind. No cream cheese, wasn’t really feeling it-”

“Simon! You know that’s not what I meant. Tell me about the date!” She cuts me off.

“Oh, that?” I toy with her a little longer. “It was great, the food and everything. The restaurant was a bit too fancy for my taste, and I couldn’t really pronounce the food on the menu but besides that it was good. We went on a walk afterward, through Union Square.”

“What do you think about Basil? Do you like him?” I can practically hear Penny bouncing around from excitement.

“Baz? Yeah, I like him. I really do.” At this point, I can’t contain my smile. I’m looking down, biting my bottom lip, picturing mesmerizing grey eyes, strong cheekbones, flawless long hair. 

“Simon?” She pulls me out of my daydream.

“Yeah?”

“You blanked there for a second. Oh my god, Simon, you’re totally whipped.”

“I guess I am. He’s really nice, not like anyone I’ve ever dated before. He listened to me like everything that came out of my mouth was the most important thing in the world. And the way he talks too, so eloquent, like a Dickens novel, or a Shakespearean monologue.”

“What did you guys do after the date?” 

“Well, we walked through Union Square Park, like I said. I think he could tell I really wanted to hold his hand, ‘cuz he grabbed mine about fifteen minutes into the walk. He has great hands, you know. Slightly bigger than mine, long and nimble fingers. And then I asked him to walk me home, and he did, and I kissed him at my doorstep.” My heart is beating strongly in my chest, my stomach fluttering. 

“That’s it?” Penny asks me. She sounds sort of disappointed.

“Yeah, why?”

“I kind of figured he spent the night, _you know?”_

“What? Penny, no! You know I don’t do that on the first date!”

“Yeah, well, I kinda figured, ‘cuz I told you to text me after and you never did, so I thought he spent the night or something.”

“That did not happen, Pen.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“Yeah, I asked him out. We’re going out this Saturday.”

“Yay, I wish you both the best. I gotta go, but I’ll stop by this afternoon.”

“Alright, bye Penny. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” And with that, she hangs up, leaving me to my thoughts. She doesn’t really know how much I really want to see Baz again, how excited I am to see him again. I don’t really know what I’m going to do as a second date, actually. I asked him out again on impulse. Simply the thought of spending more time with him is enough to keep me on my toes. It’s like I want to spend every waking moment with him. I make my way down the stairs to the train, practically floating down the steps.

\---

During lunch, I’m sitting at my desk working out the lesson plan for the next two weeks when James, a fifth-grader in one of my classes, walks in, placing his lunch on the desk closest to mine. He’s a quiet kid; he doesn’t really have friends, and a few kids have always tended to pick on him, especially during lunch. He’s great at art, though, has quite a knack for it. He feels comfortable in my class, so I let him spend his lunch period in my classroom. He feels most comfortable when he’s around me, so I like to give him a safe space for him to feel like himself. He reminds me a lot of myself as a kid, before I met Penny. 

“Hey, Mr. S,” he says as he takes a sandwich out of the paper bag he’s placed on the desk.

I look up from my laptop, offering him a sincere smile. “What’s up, James? How was your weekend?”

He shrugs. “It was alright. My brother came home from college for the weekend, said he missed the dog, but I know it really was because he needs more money from my parents. That’s the only reason he comes down on weekends.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, continuing with his mouth full. “How was your weekend?”

I smile at him, a genuine smile, the picture of Baz popping up in my head. “It was good. I got lots of stuff done. How have your classes been?”

He shrugs again, “They’ve been alright. Mrs. Anderson keeps on giving me crap over science, but like, she sucks at teaching science, so it can’t really be my fault that I don’t understand the material.” I laugh. Listening to James talk about his classes is like watching a video of me complaining to my mom when I was around his age. 

“James, you and I are so alike, it’s like looking in a mirror,” I tell him. He looks at me and shines a shy smile at me. 

“Well, I hope I grow up to be a cool guy like you. Everyone likes you.” He looks back at his lunch, beginning to pick at the bag of chips on the desk. “Amy said you were overly happy in class today. Says it’s because you went on a date over the weekend. Is it true?”

“Why are you students so invested in your teachers’ personal lives?” I give him a stern but casual look, and he smiles back at me.

“So it’s true? You went on a date over the weekend?”

“Listen, James, I’m only going to tell you because you’re my favorite student, but you can’t tell anyone, because you know teachers aren’t supposed to discuss their personal lives with students, but, yes, I went on a date, last night.”

“Was she pretty?” _Shit._ This is why teachers don't talk about their personal lives with their students. It’s not like I’m uncomfortable with my sexuality, I’m very open about it, I’m proud of being bisexual. And, like, the school administrators know, too. Y’know, background checks upon hiring and all that. It’s just that maybe talking to a ten year old boy about the man I went on a date with isn’t the most appropriate lunchtime conversation. But it’s important to expose kids to this kind of thing, to dial down their shock factor when they hear it as they get older.

“Actually, I, um, went out with a guy.” I leave it at that, worried about how he might respond. He looks up at me, eyes wide in response.

“Oh, uh, that’s cool, I guess. Was he nice?” Huh, casual response. Okay, nothing to worry about.

“Yeah, he was. But that’s it, okay? Enough about me,” I finish off sternly. James chuckles lightly, proceeding to go back to his lunch. We go back into regular conversation, him telling me about the new video game his parents bought him for his Nintendo. The lunch period ends, and soon enough, my classroom begins to fill up, my students falling back into the rhythm of completing their pieces. 

\---

I stop by Ebb’s flower shop on my way home. I met Ebb while I was still in college, when I was buying flowers for my at-the-time girlfriend. I did this thing where I’d buy her a singular flower, but always a different kind, every Thursday. What can I say, I’m a romantic. Didn’t really do much for the relationship though-- she cheated on me with some thirty-under-thirty type guy in pharmaceuticals or something. My point is, the only thing I really got out of that relationship was a budding friendship with Ebb. She and I have gotten really close since. She’s in her late thirties, I want to say, and she’s the sweetest, most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met. She’s got this thing for goats. And crying. There are tiny ceramic goats hidden all over the flower shop, and the aprons she and her employees wear all have a goat embroidered on them, even though her shop doesn’t have a goat on the logo. Her shop doesn’t even have a logo. It’s just _Ebb’s Orchard_ in some really nice script, which I’m pretty sure is her handwriting. I’m fairly certain Ebb likes goats because her parents ran a goat farm in New Jersey. And as for crying, she’s told me that there’s no point in keeping all your emotions bundled up inside-- that it’s best to let it all out. I guess she’s not wrong, but I’ve never really seen someone cry _so much._ That woman spends so much on tissues, I’m pretty sure her tissue expenses are enough for her to put in her taxes. 

Crying is definitely some advice I wish I had been given as a child. It really would’ve helped. Then again, probably not. My father wasn’t one for showing emotion. _Real men are strong, Simon,_ he’d say. _You need to man up, Simon. Why are you crying, Simon? I didn’t even hit you that hard. Grow up and learn to take a punch, Simon._ I shudder at the recurring memories. How was seven-year-old me supposed to know what strong was? The only example of a “real man” I had was someone who was so weak they drowned their sorrows in cheap liquor from the Booze n’ Stuff at the edge of town. I cry sometimes, now. Ebb has rubbed that notion on me very well. But I don’t do it in front of others. I’ve only ever really cried in front of my mom. And Penny. But I could never bring myself to cry as frequently and publicly as Ebb does.

The little bell rings as I walk through the door, the scent of freshly cut grass and lavender filling my senses. Ebb perks up from her work station, her short blonde hair falling over her face. I smile at her. She adds the finishing touches to the arrangement she’s working on before turning to me as I approach the table. 

“Simon, dear! How are you?” She leans over the table to hug me, struggling to maintain her balance on the stool. She sits back down as I pull the extra stool under me, sitting across from her. 

“I’m good, Ebb. Really good actually,” I respond, my heart momentarily skipping a beat. 

“Buying flowers today, are you? Going to visit your mom?” She knows me so well. I drive up to Long Island at least once a month to visit my mom and grandma, and I always bring them flowers. Roses, to be specific. 

“No, not yet. I’m here because I need your help, actually. If you were to ask someone on a date that you planned for two in the afternoon, what would you take that person to do?” I ask her, because I really am stumped. I haven’t asked someone on a date in about two years, and I wasn’t really the one to ask people on dates. We would kinda hang out and let the magic happen.

“Simon Salisbury, are you seeing somebody? Who is this special someone?” She asks me, and I can already see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Like I said, she’ll cry over anything, and at this instance, it’s because of pride. She’s proud that I’ve asked someone on a date. I swear, she’s like a second mother to me. 

I try to hold back a smile. “Um, his name is Basilton.” I say looking down, my hands fumbling with a leaf I found on the table. “Penny set me up with him, we went out last night and I already asked him out on a second date, for Saturday afternoon, and he said yes, but I have no idea what to do.” I tell her about how sophisticated Baz is, about how he grew up in some fancy neighborhood upstate I can’t remember the name of. I tell her about what he does, how he teaches English literature at NYU, Ebb’s very own alma mater. She looks at me, the look of a proud parent painted on her face. 

“What did you guys do last night?” she asks as she pulls a tissue out of her apron pocket, lightly dabbing it against her waterline. The memory of last night’s kiss dances around in my head, warmth spreading across my lips. 

“We went out to some fancy, rustic restaurant. Craft, down on nineteenth? Pretty cool place, too fancy for my taste, though. We kind of just did basic date things; talked, got to know each other, found out each other’s middle names, the usual. Then we walked through the park, and then we went home.”

“Who planned it?”

“Baz did. Penny convinced him to let her set him up on a blind date, but he picked the day, the time, and the place.”

I can see the miniature light bulb go off in Ebb’s head. “Well maybe, do something that screams _Simon._ Take him to an art museum; he sounds like the kind of guy who’d like a museum. Or maybe take him to MoSA, you’d like that better. Or take him to the zoo. No scratch that-- that sounds like the perfect date for me. Maybe you could take him to your mother’s bakery, get him-” 

“Wait, what?” I cut her off when the realization hits me. How could I possibly take the guy I really, _really_ like to meet my mother as a second date? No freakin way. “Ebb, there’s no way I’m taking Baz to meet my mom as a second date. It’s only our _second date_. I’ll come on too strong.”

She looks down, her mouth twisting in thought. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I did get some good ideas, though, thank you.” I get off my stool and quickly hug her, proceeding to make my way towards the door. 

“Of course, Si.” She looks back at the flower arrangement. “Hey, maybe stop by and buy him flowers before your date. I’ll give you your usual _Simon Salisbury_ discount!”

I turn back to her as I open the door. “First, I need to find out his favorite flower. But I’ll definitely keep that in mind!” She sends me a wide smile with a wave, and with that, I’m off to plan my date with Baz. 

BAZ 

One would’ve thought that agreeing to being set up on a date would be enough to get Penelope Bunce off my back, but surely, I was wrong. I had expected to be left alone, considering her wish had been fulfilled and I went on a date with Simon Salisbury, but if anything, it’s made her much more persistent to find out about my life. Right now, she’s sitting across from me at the table in the teachers’ lounge, watching me eat as her leg bounces furiously under the table, her giant, purple ring tapping against the polished wood of the tabletop. She knows I’m a rather reserved person, yet she insists on making casual conversation whenever she sees me alone. Although, I already know what she wants to talk about right now; a particular blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy. 

“Penelope, you watching me eat makes me very uncomfortable,” I say as I move my roast beef around with my fork, looking at my food to avoid her gaze.

“Basil, I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes and you haven’t mentioned your date with Simon at all,” she pleads. She sounds like a child begging their parents to let them stay at the park longer. 

“Surely, you’ve already had this conversation with Simon already. Why do you want to hear about this from me?” I ask as I look up at her, my eyebrow arched in its not-so-unusual position.

“ _Because,_ I want to hear it from both sides. I’ve already heard it from Simon, and he really likes you, and I mean _really_ likes you, but that’s all crap if you don’t feel the same!” She’s thrown her arms up in defeat, and I keep a neutral expression as my stomach does somersaults inside me. He _really_ likes me. I mean, I guess I kind of already knew that, considering he couldn’t wait to kiss me, and he already asked me out for a second date, but _man,_ does it feel great to hear it from someone else. The thought overcomes my emotion, as there’s a smile slowly growing on my face. 

“Fine, I do like him. A lot. I think he’s charming and fun to be around, and, as I’m sure you know, we’ll be going on another date this weekend. I really enjoyed our date last night, and I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me finish my lunch.” I turn back to my food as Penelope bounces in her seat, as though she’d just been shot.

“I knew it! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! God, you and Simon are so perfect for each other, I don’t know why I didn’t set you guys up earlier!” 

“Jesus Christ, Bunce, calm down.” She looks at her watch and gets up from her chair.

“God, I love playing cupid! I gotta go, but this isn’t over. I best be getting more details from you next week, Basil! Mark my words!” She says as she walks out of the room. 

I pull out my phone to text Simon, missing his casual conversation.

 **Me (Monday, 3:14pm):** Your friend is quite the personality

 **Snow (3:17pm):** You just noticed?

 **Me (3:18pm):** Can’t believe it took me this long. Also can’t believe you’ve put up with her for 15 years

 **Snow (3:20pm):** yeah, I’ll tell you more about that on our second date ;)

I blush at the thought of seeing him again. Another message pops up on my screen. 

**Snow (3:20pm):** Meet me outside of my apartment at 2 on saturday. No need to dress too fancy

 **Me (3:22pm):** May i ask what you have planned?

 **Snow (3:23pm):** nope, youll just have to wait until our date

 **Me (3:24pm):** see you then :)

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second date to come in the next chapter! 
> 
> Also, quick question: where are y'all from? Im from New Jersey. I'm wondering cuz I get most of my emails from AO3 at like 3 or 4 in the morning NJ time, so it makes me curious as to what time y'all are up reading. I guess it's a stupid question tho, considering it's 3 am my time and I'm just finishing writing, editing, and publishing this. I'm just curious.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second date WooHoo! 
> 
> Kind hard to write about a date when you've never been on one yourself, but I did and this is the longest fic I've ever written so it doesn't really matter.
> 
> I should probably include a trigger warning: Simon talks about child abuse and alcoholism. Nothing too specific or detailed or anything, but just figured it might be important to include

BAZ

I never pictured myself as the kind of guy to fuss over what to wear on a date. But believe me when I say, _I have no fucking idea what to wear._ What could “too fancy” even mean? I’ve only ever known fancy! My father owns a big company, I’ve only ever seen him in suits, and my mother is the head of the board of education in a _very_ rich town, the only time I’ve seen her _not_ wearing heels was when she sprained her ankle. I went to a private boarding school, for god’s sake! I wore slacks and a tie _every single day._ Who am I kidding, I’m the epitome of business formal! The most relaxed clothing I own are my pyjamas, and they’re custom-made and made out of organic Egyptian cotton. 

I bet Simon Salisbury knows how to dress “not too fancy”. He seems like the kind of guy who makes himself look presentable for work, but spends most of his evenings in jeans and crewnecks. Not that I’m complaining; I love a laid back guy. But my work clothes are pretty much the same as my evening and day-off clothes. The only difference is that I tend to ditch the tie the moment I get home. 

I’m standing in my closet, glaring at my neatly hung up shirts and finely pressed pants. I glance at a drawer in the corner of my closet, when I suddenly remember what’s in there. Probably the most relaxed clothing I own. Not my pyjamas-- I’d _never_ wear those on a date, obviously-- but some jeans from when I was in college. I think I bought them as an experiment, to see if I’d actually like them or not. My style outside of boarding school didn’t vary when I went home, so I figured college would’ve been a good time to experiment with my appearance. I didn’t really like it, though, hence my fashion staying rather fancy. I figure I could wear jeans with one of my everyday shirts and that’ll balance out. I end up going with a dark pair of jeans, a green merino sweater with a white button-up shirt under it, and a pair of black, suede oxfords. Not “too fancy” enough, I guess. I look down at my watch. 1:25. It’s about a fifteen minute bus ride and a ten minute walk from my loft to Simon’s apartment, so I figure it’s best if I leave now. It’s warm enough that I don’t necessarily need a coat-- the sweater, shirt, and undershirt should do the trick. And the mid-March weather is rather favorable today, just over sixty degrees. Still, though, I grab a light coat from my closet before I head out the door. 

I have zero expectations for this date. Simon refused to tell me anything, and I didn’t really feel like pestering him about it. But that still doesn’t mean I’m not excited. I figure, since Simon’s an art teacher, he must be really creative. I suppose I should be up for something fun, considering the date is for two in the afternoon. I should’ve asked Simon if he needed me to bring anything. Or maybe I should’ve just brought something, period. A bottle of wine, maybe? No, it’s two in the afternoon, and Simon said he doesn’t drink. What an asshole move, that is. Pulling up to the apartment of the guy you really like with the one thing he _specifically_ said he didn’t drink. 

I’m about halfway to Simon’s apartment when the bus pulls into the stop. I still recall the route from our first date, so I have no need to use my phone’s GPS with the address Simon sent me. It’s suddenly hitting me that I’m nervous. It took me this long to realize that I haven’t stopped pulling at the cuticles on my thumb, and that with every step I take closer to my destination, my heart rate increases by five beats. As I approach the corner of his building, I’m half expecting Simon to already be at the steps waiting for me. But he’s not. I glance down at my watch and notice that I’m about ten minutes early. I could wait. But wouldn’t that look weird, Simon coming out of his house to just see me standing there? I decide to man up and ring the doorbell. I look at the panel with all the tenants’ names on it, my finger going over the buttons until my eyes find the name _Salisbury_ written in sharp, pointy letters, the kind where all the letters are capital and the first letter is much bigger than the rest of them. I press the button next to his name and a light buzzing sound goes off. 

There’s what seems to be the sound of a dog barking before a voice goes, “ _Who is it?”_

“Um, it’s me, Basilton,” I respond, leaning towards the microphone. 

“ _Baz! Great, I’ll be right down!”_ Simon’s voice blares through the intercom. I head back down the steps to wait on the sidewalk, when Simon walks out of the building, a messenger bag thrown over his shoulder. Based on how he’s dressed, I suppose I got the right message for “no need to dress too fancy”. He’s dressed more casual than I am, which is predictable. He’s wearing black jeans and a blue button up, which he’s styled untucked. He’s finished off his look with a black pair of Chuck Taylors. The physical embodiment of casual. Yet, he looks dashing, like a model out of a fashion magazine. His curls look a bit darker, almost brown, so I’m assuming they’re damp. He quickly walks down the steps, meeting my gaze about three feet away from me. He’s smiling at me, a soft smile. He looks well rested.

“Hi,” he says, and I notice his eyes are going up and down over my face.

“Hi,” is all I can manage to respond. 

The light in his eyes perk up. “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I respond with a smile. His smile grows wider and he proceeds to walk down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction of which I came in. He walks fast, taking long strides with a quick pace. I bet he’s a fast runner. I put a little hop in my step in order to catch up with him.

“Snow, where exactly are we going?” I ask, finally walking at the same pace he is. He turns to look at me, adjusting his grip on his bag.

“Figure now’s a good time to tell you, huh? I’ve left you waiting long enough,” He answers with a grin on his face. “We’re going to Stuyvesant Square. I have an entertaining afternoon planned for us.” I just smile at him, and we continue to walk in silence for a brief moment, when Simon turns to me and asks, “What’s your favorite flower?”

I’m caught off guard for a brief moment. “Um, my what?”

“Your favorite flower, what is it? Mine are sunflowers, and roses.”

“Uh, I’ve never really thought about it, I suppose.” He looks at me, kind of disappointed. “I mean, I guess if I really had to choose, it would be the dahlia.” 

“Good choice. Why?”

“Are you asking me why my favorite flower is the dahlia?” He simply nods, eyes looking forward. “My mother, she’s really into gardening. She has the greenest thumb out of everyone I’ve ever met. She always managed to plant and maintain dahlias, even though they really only grow in Mexico. I don’t know how she did it, but every summer, when I’d get home from school, the garden was always blooming with dahlias. I can’t even describe it, it was like…”

“Magic?” He interjects, a sympathetic look on his face. 

I smile at him, nodding. “Yeah, magic. It was like magic.”

His arm bumps against mine. “That was beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I pause for a brief moment. “What about you? Why are sunflowers and roses your favorite flowers?”

“Well, as you obviously know, I’m an art teacher, which means I’m remotely good at art, as expected.” He lets out a laugh. “When I was a kid, there was a community garden in my neighborhood, where people would plant flowers and fruits and vegetables. I would go to the garden and draw the different flowers and plants, learning their names, and I would make those small labels you put by the stem to know what they are, yeah? Anyways, there was this line of sunflowers, and they always _amazed_ me as a kid, because, I was like three feet tall, and there was this _monstrosity_ of a flower in front of me, and I would think to myself, ‘How could a flower grow to be _that big_?’. Sunflowers quickly became my favorite thing to draw from the garden, and ever since, they’ve been my favorite flower. And as for roses; my mom, she’s always called me her ‘Rosebud Boy’. I don’t know where she got it from or how she came up with it, but I always found it really comforting, coming from her. When I’d be in a rough patch, she’d sit with me, rubbing my hair out of my face, calmly whispering, ‘It’s okay, my Rosebud Boy, everything will be alright, and you will bloom.’ Nothing brings me as much comfort as that did. Everytime I go visit my mom and grandma, I bring them a bouquet of roses, red or pink, and she loves them.” 

“You and your mom must have a really good relationship,” I say, my eyes still on him. He has a faraway gaze, like he’s remembered a very distant memory.

“Yeah, we do. She and my grandma are really the only family I’ve got.” Oh. _Oh._ I notice a subtle quiver in his lip before he takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “ C’mon, right through here.” Before I even realized, we had reached the park Simon had mentioned. We walk through the path, passing people on bicycles and dogs being walked by their owners. A few squirrels scurry along in front of us, and some birds come flying from one tree to another. We make our way towards the center of the park, where all the paths come together to make a large circle. In the middle, a crew is putting together what seems to be a stage. The grass clearings are fenced in, although the fence doesn’t really do much. They’re just about a foot and a half tall, and they’re really here as a mere decoration. Simon hops over the fence and I follow behind. He pulls out a sheet from his bag, unfolds it, and lays it over the green grass. He sits down on it, looking up at me while patting the empty spot next to him, signaling for me to sit down. I take the spot across from him, my legs straight out to the side. He’s sitting in a criss cross position as he begins to take things out of his bag. He pulls out two sandwiches, each individually packaged in a Ziploc bag, and a couple tupperware containers filled with different fruits; one has grapes in various colors, another has sliced apples, and the last is filled with mixed berries. He then proceeds to pull out a glass container with some sort of pastry dessert, but he doesn’t open that one yet. Finally, he takes out two reusable bottles filled with what I’m assuming is iced tea. He places everything over the blanket before closing the bag and setting it aside. 

“Snow?” I ask him, curious as to what his intentions are for the date.

“Yes?” He responds as he removes the lids of the tupperware, not making eye contact or even bothering to look up at me. 

“What are we doing?”

“We’re on a date, obviously.” He looks up at me, a laugh playfully coming out of his mouth. “I figured since you planned our first one, I’d plan our second one, and we could alternate or whatever. Today, however, I wanted to do something really _me,_ you know? So, here we are, in a park, because I really like parks; I don’t know if you knew that. We’re going to have a picnic, because I like picnics, and we’re going to listen to the indie band that is going to play in about an hour; because my favorite music genre is indie and I like live performances. And we’re also going to get to know each other, ‘cause, like, that’s what people do on dates, or so I’ve heard.” He pops a grape into his mouth and smiles at me as he chews.

I lean back on my hand, enjoying the comfort I get from his presence. “So, Snow, what do you want to know about me?” He hands me a sandwich and I take it, beginning to unwrap it.

“Oh! Now that I remember-” He turns to his bag. I take a bite out of my sandwich as he fumbles with the zipper. It’s a good sandwich; italian. But it doesn’t taste like it’s store bought. The bread is room temperature, but the cheese and meat are still cool and fresh. There’s no onions, luckily. I hate onions. But the tomatoes are juicy and the lettuce is crunchy and it’s overall spectacular. 

“Did you make this sandwich?” I ask as I swallow the rest of the bite. 

Simon is still rummaging through his bag when he responds, “Yeah, I did.”

“It’s really good.” I don’t know if it’s the actual variety of meats and different ingredients that he used that make me feel like this is the best italian sub I’ve ever eaten, or simply the fact that it was made by this golden haired boy who wants to get to know me and seems to have hands made of magic. 

“Aha! I found it!” He bursts as he turns around to face me again.

“And what exactly is ‘it’?” He’s unfolding a crumpled up paper, and I can see something written on it.

“It’s my list of questions, y’know, things to ask on a date. I know you already told me where you grew up and where you went to school, but that’s just, like, the tip of the iceberg. I wanna get to know you Baz, like really know you, and I know stupid questions like these can lead to really detailed conversations. And if you want you can ask me some questions from the list or we can just exchange answers…” He trails off. Holding the page in his hands. He looks down at his page, a frown forming on his lips, a little wrinkle forming between his furrowing brows. Someone’s hurt him, I can tell. Someone’s told him that his idea of questions for a date was ridiculous, and I want to take that person by the shirt collar and scare them shitless for hurting this walking ray of sunshine. I want to take Simon into my arms and make sure he knows that nothing he comes up with in that big, beautiful brain of his could ever be stupid. 

“It’s not stupid.” I crane my head down to try to look at his face when he looks up.

“What?”

“Your questions, they’re not stupid, I don’t know why you’d think that.” His expression softens from sadness to content, and the light starts to come back to his eyes. 

“You really think so?” I nod, a sincere smile on my lips. He shakes his head and lets out a light chuckle. “I’m sorry, sometimes I tend to get lost in my own head.”

“It’s alright, what’s your first question?” I take a strawberry and bite into it as I lean back, letting the cool breeze flow through my hair.

“Okay, what are people often surprised to learn about you?”

“Easy-- that I’m gay.”

“Really?” I look at him, he’s eating his sandwich now, the page of questions laid out in front of him. 

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I wear a Pride flag pin on my lapel every day, or I have ‘I’m Gay’ tattooed on my forehead. Don’t get me wrong, I’m out, but people don’t seem to assume that when they see me. Bunce didn’t even know I’m gay until she was trying to set me up with someone. I’m not exactly a walking gay stereotype, so people, especially women, tend to be surprised when they find out I’m gay.”

“Huh, never would’ve guessed that. Then again, the first thing I kinda knew about you as that you are gay, so...” he ends his sentence with a shrug.

“And why would you have never guessed that?” I’m curious. 

“Well, I mean, if Penny had never set us up and I saw you somewhere random, like a bar or coffee shop or something, my first thought would be something along the lines of, ‘oh, he’s cute, maybe I should ask him out’. But then I probably wouldn’t have done that, because I don’t have the confidence to ask someone out in a coffee shop.” He shrugs again, then begins to pick at the bowl of berries.

“So you’re saying that we wouldn’t be going out if Bunce had never set us up?”

He looks down. “Mm, maybe,” he looks up at me, golden smile showing on his lips. “But I’m really glad she did.” He continues eating the fruit out of the container.

“What about you? What are people most surprised to find out about you?”

He ponders for a quick second. “Probably that I’m an only child,” he responds, still chewing.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an only child.” He swallows the last bite and nods his head.

“People usually do, they say that I’m really lively and great with kids that they just assume I grew up with other kids, and they usually think I’m the oldest. But I am, indeed, an only child.” I can see the picture now, a young Simon sitting on a couch playing video games with someone who bares resemblance to him. It fits, the guardian role seems like something made for him. I wonder if there’s a specific reason that he knows of. I want to get to know Simon. Like he had said, I only know the tip of the iceberg.

“Do you know why your parents never had any other kids? I’m just asking.”

“I do actually. Sort of. My parents were really young when they had me. My parents were just out of college and trying to get my mom’s bakery started. My dad ran the business side while my mom made all the foods and pastries and stuff. She also managed the marketing and advertising. They were really busy, really young, and financially challenged. And as I got older, my mom got busier with the shop, and my dad, well, my dad was never much of a dad to begin with.” He stops, and I can tell it’s hard for him to tell me this. There are two tears appearing in his eyes. He quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand and fumbles around with his fingers. I sit up and reach over to him, grabbing his hand and holding it gently, my thumb lightly caressing his hand. 

“Hey, look at me.” He looks up, his eyes red, but there’s a lack of tears coming from them. He’s biting his lip. “You don’t have to tell me this if it’s too hard.”

He takes a deep breath, then covers our intertwined hands with his free hand. “No, I- I want to tell you this. I can talk about it, it’s just that, it’s hard sometimes, after it’s been a while since I’ve even thought about it.” He pauses and takes another breath, calming himself down. “My dad, he, uh… my mom’s told me that he was great before they had me, but after they had me, and my mom started her bakery, he kind of, I don’t know how to phrase it-- spiraled? Yeah, he spiraled, became really distant. Most of my memories from when I was really young are him just mumbling things to himself when he was in his office. But as I got older, he and my mom would get into arguments that were so scary, I would just sneak out and go to the playground or the community garden or my grandmother’s house. He became an alcoholic, and shortly after he started to become abusive. Mainly towards my mother at first, so I would defend her, but then he started to take it out on me. ‘Now that you see yourself as big and brave, Simon, you’d might as well learn to take a punch,’ he’d say. It was a lot of physical and emotional abuse, from my father, and my mother never knew what to do. 

“The abuse started when I was around seven or eight, I think. But the thing is, he was only ever like this at home. Outside of the house, at this point, he was taking grad school classes so he could teach at the local community college. He was charismatic, everyone liked him, so no one believed me when I tried to say something.” There are tears flowing down his face again, so I take one of the napkins on the blanket and use it to wipe his tear stained face. He manages to smile at me before continuing. “My mom finally stood up to him, not too long before I turned eleven. She told him to sober up and learn to become a father, or he could leave. I guess she and I didn’t matter much to him, because he left. I don’t really know when or exactly what made him decide that; neither she nor him have told me why. I spent like two weeks at my grandmother’s, and when I got back home, it was like he never even lived there. I reached out to him a couple years ago, after I turned nineteen. I had been out to everyone then, but I still hadn’t told him I was bisexual. I don’t know why, but there was a part of me that thought he deserved to know. He’s the dean of admissions at Boston University now, don’t know how he managed to do that. He didn’t approve of my sexulaity, don’t know why I thought he would. I’m sure there’s more to the story, my mom knows it, but I haven’t had the courage to ask her. But yeah, I guess that really explains why I’m an only child.” 

I usually don’t find myself without words. Simon is looking at me, waiting for me to say something. I want to hold him in my arms, have him sit on my lap, and let out any pent up emotion he has over this. I want to make sure his asshole father never gets to Simon again. I want to find his father and knock most of the teeth out of his mouth. I want to put a spotlight on him and expose him for the shit human being he was, and how he and no one like him deserves a position as high as he has.

Obviously, I can’t do any of those now. So instead, I tighten my grip on Simon’s hand and wipe his tears away with the damp napkin. He lets out a breath and shines me a crooked smile. 

“You’re very brave, Simon. You’re strong and kind, and even though life seems to have dealt you a fairly shit hand, you overcame it, and I admire that.” 

He looks at me, eyes all puffy but conveying an emotion that doesn’t make me want to protect him from the dangers of the world. “Thank you, really. Now, I want to hear about your childhood, what was that like? It’s only fair that you tell me, I just practically word-vomited all over your fancy sweater.” He says that with a laugh, like what he said has no impact on him. I decide it’s best if I play along. 

“Well, I, too, am an only child. I come from two rich families. My father is the CEO of Grimm Industries, which he inherited from his father, since he’s the oldest of his siblings, and my mother is the head of the Board of Education in my hometown, and she’s the principal of a private, all-girl’s school there as well. My parents never wanted more than one kid. It was an agreement they came too not too long after they got married. Said it was unfair to have to split the family fortune. I spent most of my time with my mother, growing up. I grew up in an old mansion, the kind where you can’t redecorate because everything there is technically a historic artifact. My parents were busy a lot, when I was a kid, so I’d spend a lot of time with the house staff or by myself. My mother would be home for the entire summer, so she and I spent a lot of time together. She taught me how to speak french and italian, and some of the house staff helped me pick up a bit of spanish to get by. I learned how to play violin when I was really young, I picked it up when I was five, I think. Still play, to this day. I played soccer at Watford and in college, and I read a lot, too. Which is probably why I teach english literature. I think that’s it on my childhood, really.” Simon’s just watching me, processing what I said, I assume. His eyes aren’t as red as they were, and the puffiness on his face has died down. 

“I want to hear you play the violin now,” he says excitedly.

“Then I’ll make sure to play for you sometime,” I respond as I remember what he said on our last date. “Maybe I’ll play for you as you bake something for me, as you promised.”

He laughs lightly. I love that laugh. “I like the sound of that.” We continue making casual conversation, Simon asking me questions from a rather extensive list, me rebutting with my own. We finish the food, and Simon starts to open the last tupperware container. He offers me a scone, and I take one. They’re still warm, presumably from being held in a sealed container, and they’re soft and full of flavor. 

“If I had to pick a favorite food, I would choose these scones. They’re sour cherry scones; an old recipe passed down from my grandmother to my mom and then to me. My mom sells them at her shop, but I learned to make them when I was younger. I can make them with my eyes closed at this point,” he says as he splits one in two and takes a bite out of the half. “I took these out of the oven right before you arrived, because I think they taste best when warm.”

“They’re delicious. I love them,” I say between bites. 

“Maybe I’ll make them for you more often. Oh look, the band’s about to start.” Simon and I both turn to face the stage, watching as the people closest to the band are cheering and clapping. We sit there for a while, Simon telling me about the band, how the lead singer is the brother of someone he went to college with, which is how he found out about them in the first place. I like the music, its mellow and calming, with smooth vocals and a slow tempo on the bass guitar. We’re sitting close, a few inches between the ends of our legs, our hands nearly touching. I sneak occasional glances at Simon and watch him as he bobs his head around to the music. It’s mesmerizing, really, the way his lips move as he mouths to the music, and how his curls bounce up and down with each movement. I watch as Simon looks down at the space between us and proceeds to take my hand into his. It’s warm, just like the last time, and I find comfort in his grasp. He looks up at me with an endearing yet questioning looks, as if he’s asking me if it’s okay. I lean in and kiss him, gently, as if I kiss him like this often, like I _want_ to kiss him often. Which I do. He kisses me back, thankfully, and then breaks apart. I know the music is still playing, the show hasn’t ended, but right now it feels like he and I are the only ones in the park. He’s looking at me up and down, our faces parallel to each other. My height is all in my legs, so sitting here next to him, we’re essentially the same height. His mouth is still slightly open, like he wants to say something. 

“You have gorgeous eyes,” is all that manages to come out of his mouth. I can feel the heat rush up to my face. He turns back to the performers, leaving me to bask in the warmth and joy he brings me. I scoot over just a bit, well enough for me to lay my head on his shoulder. I feel him tense for a brief second and immediately relax. I can feel him humming along to the music, and he’s rubbing my hand with his thumb in gentle motions. 

“Baz?” 

“Yes?” I respond, my head still resting on my shoulder. 

“I have another question.”

“What is it?”

“What’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I raise my head and turn to look at him. A list of a million beautiful things run through my head. I could say the northern lights from my trip to Alaska last summer. I could say the sunset from Santa Monica. I could say the Parisian skyline from the top of the Eiffel Tower at night. But one thing outshines all of those things. One person. One guy with hair made of gold woven by Greek goddesses, with eyes that drew you in like the stars, and freckles sprinkled all over his face like confetti. 

“You.” I say with a breath. He smiles at me, and I can see the crimson color bloom on his cheeks. He leans in and kisses me, a short yet sweet and passionate kiss. We spend the rest of the concert performance like the, holding hands and sneaking kisses until the sun starts to go down and it starts to get cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh!! <3! <3! <3!!! The romance! *chef's kiss* 
> 
> Sidenote #1: Vanessa Kelley's [Baz in jeans art](https://66.media.tumblr.com/4aa234c00403ba5b9d4afc8dc983cdd0/tumblr_pfrk96RYFf1u9ki93o1_400.jpg) is the *exact* outfit i pictured for the date.
> 
> Sidenote #2: I'm surprised and proud of myself for writing this so quickly, for my standards at least. I have this fic all on one Google Doc and this chapter alone was 11 pages out of my 27 page doc. It might take me long to write the next chapter, as I have a million things to do for school and my birthday's next week, so my schedule's pretty tight. 
> 
> Sidenote #3: pat on the back to myself for uploading this before 10 pm my time.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: ptsd, child abuse, and anxiety (nothing too detailed)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have no idea how much i wish i could like your comments. it makes me so happy to know that you like my stories. much love to all of you guys <3
> 
> i've realized that i don't really have a specific plot line for the story, so my plan is just to write until my hear desires. it'll be relationship milestones (i.e. meeting the parents, the ever so expected "i love you"s, stuff like that). i feel like i want to add some sort of angst, but my weak heart can't handle writing angst without crying as i do so... 
> 
> that being said, enjoy this chapter! i had a lot of fun writing it

SIMON 

It’s been about two months since our second date, and we’ve been on about eight dates since. And then, a month ago, Baz asked me to be his boyfriend. It was really sweet. We had just left the movies, after watching a rather disappointing comedy. We had ice cream, which is when I discovered that coffee ice cream is his favorite flavor. We were walking back to the subway when he took my hand and kissed it to grab my attention. I had been distracted by the city lights. Eight years of living here and they never fail to amaze me. He seemed nervous when I looked at him. I noticed he had been pulling at the cuticles on his thumb. He told me that he loved spending time with me, that he looks forward to every single one of our dates, and that he’d like to be able to see me and spend time with me without it being a date. I could feel my heart beating in my chest when he finally said, “Simon Salisbury, will you be my boyfriend?” Needless to say, we made out against a tree for a solid ten minutes. 

I feel like it might be worth mentioning that we haven’t had sex. I mean, it’s not like I don't _want_ to, it’s just that I haven’t felt the rush to. We haven’t even spent the night together. Everything is good between us, we’re still in the honeymoon phase. I, for the first time in a while, have a boyfriend that makes me happier than I have been in a while.

Penny is at my place right now. She came over with Indian takeout, wanting to have dinner with me and Baz, only to find it was just me at home. _Where’s your lover?_ was the first thing she said as she walked into my apartment. He’s out with his friends, Dev and Niall. They all went to the same school and now live in the City, but they’re so busy, that they agreed to meet once a month for drinks and to catch up. Baz had invited me to go with them, but obviously, I didn’t go. It’s not like I’ll drink, and I didn’t want to infringe on their time. Baz and I agreed to spend the evening together tomorrow. 

Penny’s sitting on the couch watching TV and eating takeout with Rosie, my three-year-old Border Collie, watching her patiently. I found Rosie in a box on the street when she was a puppy, not too long after I moved into this apartment. It was the middle of winter, and I was sure she was going to freeze to death. I took her in and adopted her, and I swear, she’s a close tie with Penny for the spot as my best friend. Penny keeps on wiping her greasy fingers on her leggings as she eats, and Rosie keeps on licking the grease stains she leaves on her pants. I’m sitting on the one person sofa, trying to pay attention to the _Parks and Recreation_ reruns Penny decided to watch. I begin to wonder what Baz is doing, how he’s spending his night. Normally, if we weren’t together, we’d be talking on the phone or texting periodically. I figure he wouldn’t be on his phone, considering he’s catching up with his friends. I should text him, just to check up on him. You know, just as boyfriends do. I get out of my chair to grab my phone from my small dining table. As I turn it on, I see a thread of text messages, all from Baz in the last hour. 

**Bazzy <3 (Friday, 9:36pm): **Thinking of you :)

 **Bazzy <3 (9:42pm): **am slightly drumk, have yor blue eyes on my mindf

 **Bazzy <3 (9:53pm): **niall said he wantd to meet you

 **Bazzy <3 (9:53pm): **meat*

 **Bazzy <3 (9:54pm): **no meet* 

**Bazzy <3 (9:54pm): **meat? Idk how to spel

 **Bazzy <3 (10:12pm): **<3 <3 <3 :)

 **Bazzy <3 (10:25pm): **dev threw up on hsi shoe

 **Bazzy <3 (10:47pm): **jsut saw a dog that loks like rosy and now im crying becuz i miss u

I can feel myself starting to blush. No one’s ever drunk texted me before. Just knowing that they’re from Baz makes my heart warm. 

“ _Simon!”_ Penny blares from the couch, startling Rosie from her light slumber.

“Yes?” I say without looking up from my phone.

“You’re making googly eyes at your phone. I’ve called your name like four times. Are you texting Baz?” She says as she gets up to throw away the takeout containers.

“More So like contemplating whether or not I should go look for my drunk boyfriend roaming the streets of New York,” I say between laughs.

“Ugh, you guys are so cute! I really do work magic,” she adds as she passes by me, patting me on the shoulder. “I’m gonna bounce. Shepard and I are meeting up early to work out.” She leans up and kisses me on the cheek before heading back to Rosie and petting her on the head.

“Have fun with that, Pen. Be safe. Text me when you get home.”

“Will do. Love ya.” And with that, she’s out the door. I turn back to my phone.

 **Me (11:10pm):** How drunk are you?

 **Bazzy <3 (11:10pm): **im not drumk your drunj 

**Me (11:10pm):** I’m not drunk, nor will i ever be drunk

 **Bazzy <3 (11:14pm): **4got bout that 

**Bazzy <3 (11:14pm): **dev said im not drubk cuz he only sees one head on my shoilders 

**Me (11:15pm):** Baby I don’t like the idea of you roaming the streets drunk

 **Me (11:15pm):** Do you want me to come pick you up?

 **Bazzy <3 (11:21pm): **i like it when ypu call me babby

 **Bazzy <3 (11:21pm): **bsby

 **Bazzy <3 (11:21pm): **baby

 **Bazzy <3 (11:25pm): **i dont meed you to pikc me up

 **Bazzy <3 (11:25pm): **im takimg an uber home

 **Me (11:26pm):** text me when you get there. Miss you. 

I tuck Rosie into her doggy bed before turning off the TV and heading to my room. I go into the bathroom in my room and turn on the shower, waiting for it to get lukewarm. Nighttime showers are the best, and I’ll fight anyone who disagrees with me. I dry off and put on some flannel pants and an old t-shirt from college, one covered in acrylic paint that never washed out. I don’t know why I bother putting on a shirt, I usually get too hot at night and take it off. I check my phone to see if Baz texted me. It’s a little past midnight, and there’s only the text from Penny telling me she’s home. Nothing from Baz. I can feel a hint of worry in my stomach. I plug my phone in and place it on my nightstand, making sure that the ringer is on. Just as I’m turning off my lamp, I hear a thud coming from outside my room, followed by Rosie barking. I quickly spring out of bed towards the living room, shushing her as I get there. I turn on the light and stand there, trying to figure out where that sound came from. Another thud rings through the room, this time from the door. The thud is followed by a few light knocks. I make sure Rosie is calm and in her bed before I make my way to the door. I open the door to find a very drunk Baz leaning up against my door frame.

“Smimon! You got the door open!” He lunges himself at me, nearly knocking me off my feet. He slams his face into mine, planting a sloppy kiss over my lips. “I missed you so much, and I want to kiss you, but right now, I want to take a nap, on your couch.” He’s slurring his words so much, I’m surprised he was able to make it up the stairs without hurting himself. He’s still holding onto my arm as he makes his way towards my sofa. He throws himself on the couch while still holding onto me, causing me to fall on top of him. He grunts and then bursts into laughter. 

“Y’know, I’ve had dreams of you on top of me like this,” he says between breaths. I can smell the alcohol when he speaks, he must really be out of it.

“Baz, baby, you’re drunk.”

“S’maybe I am.” I get off of him and kiss him on his temple. I head to the kitchen and fill up a glass of water. I come back and hand it to him after watching him struggle to sit up. 

“Here, love, drink. We need to get something besides alcohol in your system.” He drinks the water and then places the glass on the coffee table before sitting back and staring at nothing. He smacks his lips and hiccups before looking up at me.

“Do you have a bathroom? Because I’m going to throw up in t-minus two minutes,” he says, trying to sound like he’s not drunk.

“Jesus Christ. Alright, let’s go.” He puts his arms up, like a child waiting for their parents to pick them up. As if I could pick him up. He’s like three inches taller than me and I have the arm strength of an uncooked spaghetti. I throw one of his arms over my shoulder, wrapping my arms around his waist, getting him to stand up. He puts his entire body weight into my arms, nearly knocking both of us over. “Baz, you gotta help me here and walk, you know I have the arm strength of a chicken nugget.” And with that, he bursts into laughter and falls onto the floor, long legs sprawled out in front of him. 

“Chicken nuggets! That’s funny!” He says between laughs. Once he stops and is able to catch his breath, he continues, “Hey, we should get chicken nuggets, right now. Let’s go, I’ll pay.” He gets up, stumbling over his own feet while making his way to the door. I laugh and quickly make my way to block him from leaving. 

“You, sir, said you were gonna throw up, and I don’t want to clean up bile from my floor, so we’re getting you to the bathroom. We can get chicken nuggets tomorrow.”

He starts to move his hair out of his face before retorting, “Fine, Mom, geez.” I guide Baz through the narrow hall, holding onto him to make sure he doesn’t hit his head on the wall. I notice a bunch of (what I’m hoping is) food stains on his wrinkled shirt just as he sees the toilet. He practically throws himself towards it, letting go of everything inside of him. I hear him cough as I rub his back. His hair is getting in the way, so I slip the hair tie off of his wrist and begin to gently pull his hair back, tying it all together in a small bun as best as I can. 

“Mmmm, I like how your hands feel in my hair,” he says with a sigh. He starts to gag, and then proceeds to cough up whatever is left inside of him. “I hate that you’re seeing me like this, puking all over your nice toilet,” he confesses into the toilet bowl. 

“I’d rather you be here and throwing up in my bathroom than still roaming the streets. Are you feeling better?” Baz nods without lifting his head out of the toilet. “I’m gonna get you some more water and a change of clothes, okay?” He nods again. I place a kiss on the back of his head before leaving the room. I head to my bedroom and take out some basketball shorts and a hoodie. They’re not the silk pajamas I know Baz sleeps in, but they’re much better than the dirty clothes he has on now. I go to the kitchen and fill up another glass of water before heading back to the bathroom. As I walk back in, Baz is leaning back against the bathtub, a few stray hairs falling out of his bun, beautifully forming his face. I place the glass of water and the clothes on the counter and proceed to help him stand so he can sit on the toilet lid. 

“Snow?” He asks as I hand him his water. I hum in response, waiting for him to finish drinking the water. “You’re so great, you’re- you’re here and you’re watching me puke. No one has ever seen me puke. And you tied my hair back and you’re giving me water and you’re taking care of me and… and your dog is really cool and we’re gonna get chicken nuggets together… and you're so attractive, with your freckles and blue eyes...” a few sloppy tears start to run down his cheek, and it’s so cute, I have to refrain from laughing and kissing them away. I wipe them away with my thumb, leaving my hand softly caressing his cheek. He leans into my hand and hums.

“C’mon, love, let’s get you into something more comfortable.” I start to unbutton his shirt, which is covered in stains I would like to assume are grease and ketchup. I notice his chest starting to rise and fall in a quick rhythm. I look at Baz to find him chuckling lightly. 

“What’s so funny, Basil?” 

“You’re gonna see me naked,” he answers between laughs. _Fuck._ I am going to see him naked. Well, not _naked_ naked, but naked enough. I hadn’t realized. I mean, he’s most likely not going to remember this in the morning, but it still feels kind of wrong. I’ve never seen Baz close to naked. Don’t get me wrong; I’d love to. It’s just that I wouldn’t want our first time, or anything close to that, to be when only one of us is lucid. A brief shot of panic jolts up my spine.

“Um, do you not want me to? I- I mean, is it okay? I can leave- I just don’t want you falling and hitting your head or anything—“ I’m abruptly cut off as Baz places a finger on my lips, making an exaggerated shushing sound. 

“Shhhhhh, Simon. S’okay. I _want_ you to see me naked. I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a rockin’ bod.” Cocky bastard. I can feel all the blood rushing to my face. I try to distract myself by continuing to unbutton his shirt, but that obviously doesn’t work. Baz starts to laugh again. Have I mentioned I love his laugh? “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Alright, Baz, c’mon, let's get this on you,” I say as I pull the sweatshirt over his head. He pulls his arms through the sleeves. More hairs fall out of his bun, and I’m proud to admit that my stupid boyfriend looks devilishly handsome with a half-up-half-down look. I push the hairs away from his eyes. The hoodie I gave him is from my senior year of high school— which surprisingly still fits me— and it looks great on him. It’s a little loose on his shoulders— my shoulders are broader than his— but it fits him perfectly. I’ll tell him he can keep it in the morning. I help him change out of his pants and into the shorts I brought him. Let me just say, I’ve never been attracted to legs as much as I’m attracted to Baz’s. They’re long and perfectly toned. I know he’s played soccer most of his life, and his legs certainly show it. 

“Alright, sir, would you like me to brush your teeth for you or do you think you can stand up long enough to do it yourself?” I ask him as I stand up. He snorts as I rummage through the cabinet, looking for a spare toothbrush. Baz is dozing off on the toilet lid, so I go back to him and hoist him up, making him wake up. He takes the toothbrush and brushes his teeth, still leaning on me for support. I look at us in the mirror. We make an attractive pair, now that I think about it. Baz with his height, at least six-one, and his beautiful olive skin and mesmerizing grey eyes. At least, they look grey from afar. In reality, they’re a mix of dark blues and greens, an occasional black spot when you look really hard. All of the features on his face are sharp and symmetrical, save for his nose that’s a little crooked on the top. He told me it was because he got into a fight in high school and broke his nose. Aside from that, he’s all strong cheekbones and defined jawline. His hair is amazing; naturally black, not the dark brown that can be mistaken for black, but very black, raven, to be specific. It’s down to just above his shoulders, and it frames his face so well. And his widow’s peak just ties the entire look together. Even now, drunk out of his mind and wearing ratty gym clothes, he looks incredibly elegant. 

He finishes rinsing his mouth and I lead him to my room. I push aside the sheets and sit him down on my bed. “Lay down,” I tell him, and he obeys. I pull the covers over him and grab the pillow he isn’t using. I’m going to sleep on the couch. We’ve never slept in the same bed, and I don’t know how he’ll feel about this when he wakes up. I take the throw blanket that’s at the end of the bed when Baz starts to sit up just as I’m about to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” He sounds like a child, like everything in the world has gone wrong. 

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” I answer.

“Nonsense. There’s plenty of room here. _Mi cama es su cama es mi cama.”_ He says, in near-perfect Spanish, I might add. I don’t know what he said. He pats the spot, my spot of the bed, and then lays down again. I feel hesitant, but then walk back to the bed. I slide into the empty spot next to him and he throws his arms over me, wrapping me in his strong, warm embrace. I feel a sense of comfort I’ve never felt before. “I like you like this. In my arms, under my chin, close enough for me to count all of your freckles. I like it when your curls tickle my nose.” He kisses my forehead before snuggling even closer, his breaths slowing to the point where I can tell he’s asleep. 

***

BAZ 

My head is throbbing. I’m not in my bed.  _ I’m not in my room.  _ This mattress is softer than mine, and the room is brighter than mine. I know because my curtains are light blocking and dark grey, and there’s a tree right outside that constantly blocks the light. There’s too much light in this room. It’s also colder. I think there’s a window open. I can hear birds chirping and cars driving by. It’s too loud. I open my eyes to see that I am  _ definitely  _ not in my room. This room is smaller than mine, with light beige walls instead of the neutral grey in mine. There’s a desk cluttered with pens and papers sprawled all over it. In the far corner, there’s a chest of drawers with little decorations I can’t really make out. The diploma hung on the wall by the desk reads  _ Simon S. Salisbury. _

Simon Salisbury. I’m in Simon’s room.  _ I’m in Simon’s bed.  _ My head starts to hurt a little more as I try to sit up. I’m not wearing my clothes. I wasn’t wearing these clothes last night. I’m in a maroon hoodie that has  _ John S. Miller High School  _ embroidered in mustard yellow letters. It smells familiar, like cinnamon buns and cherries. It smells like my boyfriend. Oh my god, I’m wearing Simon’s clothes. I’m in Simon’s apartment, waking up in Simon’s bed, after sleeping in Simon’s clothes. I roll over in his bed, finding myself facing a nightstand. There’s a glass of water and a pill on top of a napkin. I sit up and find something written on the napkin in Simon’s sharp, angled letters.  _ Take this for your headache.  _ There’s a little heart perfectly doodled on the napkin. I take the pill and pop it into my mouth, proceeding to take a gulp of water. Just as I finish drinking, the bedroom door is softly pushed open. I expect Simon to walk in, but instead, I’m greeted by Rosie, Simon’s dog. She’s a sweet little one. She likes to cuddle with you on the couch and lick your fingers after you’re done eating. She’s also great to take on walks-- she never tugs on the leash too hard and never gets in your way. She’s perfect, like Simon. She comes up to me and lightly rests her head on my thigh. I gently pet her head, watching her as she closes her eyes in comfort. A whistle comes from outside of the room, and Rosie immediately perks up and follows the noise, the patter of her paws getting lighter and lighter as she walks further away from the room. 

I start to stand, gripping the edge of the nightstand, making sure I don’t lose my balance. I make my way down the hallway after leaving Simon’s room. I take note of the pictures he has hung up on the wall. Pictures of him and Penelope, mainly. There’s a few pictures of Simon and Rosie, of Rosie herself, and two of Simon with an older woman. She has blonde hair lighter than his, but her eyes match his. I assume that she’s his mom. 

I hear some sort of rhythm coming from further down the hall. As I get closer, I begin to recognize the rhythm as the trumpet solo of  _ La Vie En Rose.  _ I follow the hum to the kitchen, nearly fainting at the sight in front of me. Simon is standing at the stove, right in front of the window. Shirtless. The morning sun is casting light around him, outlining his broad shoulders and the dip of his waist, making him look like he has a halo. He’s wearing blue flannel pajama pants that are hanging loosely over his hips and line his legs so perfectly, I can see the outline of his perfectly sculpted ass. The light coming from the windows is performing wonders on his tawny skin. I never knew he had so many freckles and moles. I want to kiss all of them. I want to leave hickeys all over his back (because I’m disturbed. Ask anyone). He’s swaying slightly as he begins to hum another song. This time, it’s  _ Strangers in the Night. _ It’s beautiful, watching him like this. Rosie is sitting patiently next to Simon, silently begging for whatever he’s making. There’s a comforting aroma filling the air, a mixture of citrus and cinnamon and vanilla, along with bacon and egg and a faint sense of coffee coming from the far corner. Simon turns towards Rosie and gives her a piece of bacon. Just as he’s going to turn back to the stove, he notices me standing there. I’m just now realizing that I look like a child who’s waking up their parents in the middle of the night because of a nightmare. 

“Hey, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He asks me as he walks towards me. He puts his hands on my arms and reaches up to kiss me. A soft, gentle kiss, like I’m made of feathers. 

“Better, now that you’ve kissed me.” His eyes light up and I’m blessed with that beautiful smile of his. 

“Well I guess we know the best hangover remedy for you.” He lets go of one of my arms and put his hand in my hair, gently pulling out the hair tie that’s failing to do its job. Once my hair is falling loose, he runs his gentle hands through it. God, I finally understand why dogs like being pet so much. This feels great. “Take a seat at the table, I’m almost done with breakfast.” I head to the table and sit back in the wooden chair. I’m admiring the view in front of me: a shirtless Simon pushing eggs on a pan, the sizzle of bacon in the background, a dog watching him with wanting eyes, the same eyes I’m giving Simon (for a completely different reason, obviously). The sun making his skin look golden, and his curls look messier than usual. They’re all matted, most likely from sleep. A little rough around the edges, but still so beautiful. The entire image in front of me is purely domestic, and I couldn’t ask for more. I’ve nearly forgotten about the pulsing in my head. 

Simon’s practically done making breakfast now, and he’s serving eggs, bacon, and what I’m assuming is French toast onto two plates. He brings me one and places it in front of me, along with a fork and knife, and kisses me lightly on my temple. So soft, I love it. He goes back to the kitchen and fills up a cup of coffee, and then proceeds to take a water bottle out of the fridge and pour whatever is in there into a glass. He comes back to the table and places the glass in front of me. “Hangover cure,” he says as he’s sitting down on the chair in front of me. He doesn’t hesitate to start eating. 

It never ceases to amaze me watching Simon eat. He puts passion into every single bite. He chews like his life depends on it. I’m pretty sure there isn’t one food that Simon dislikes. Right now, he’s delicately pouring maple syrup on his french toast, careful for it to not fall on his eggs. I could watch him eat all day. He takes a quick second to look at me, noticing I haven’t touched any of my food. He signals at my plate with his fork, a look of concern on his face. I pick up the drink he made me and take a sip. It’s utterly disgusting. It’s bitter and strong and has a strong taste of ginger and beets and something else. 

“It’s terrible, I know, but I’ve had to deal with my fair share of hungover people, and they’ve all told me it works like a charm, so you might as well drink it,” Simon says from across the table. It all starts to come back to me. The one drunk Simon’s had to constantly deal with. His crapbag father. 

Simon’s opened up to me about him. He told me how he was diagnosed with PTSD when he was thirteen and how he still has anxiety attacks that are really bad for him. He’s mentioned that he takes meds for when his anxiety is really bad. He’s told me what to do if I’m around and he has an anxiety attack. The thought of him tearing himself up scares me half to death, and I genuinely wish there was something I could do for him. I think he blames himself. I don’t know why, and I don’t know the entire story, and I would never pressure him into telling me. But what he has opened up about has torn my heart to pieces. He told me that his father used to make him sleep outside when he misbehaved. He told me that he thinks the reason his cheeks are so rosy is because of how many times he was slapped across the face. He told me he blamed himself for everything. That in his heart, he knows he had nothing to do with his father being that way, but in his head, he thinks that his father would’ve been better off if he’d been born later, or not at all. 

I can’t begin to imagine a world without Simon. To put it in perspective, I see a world without Simon as a world without the sun. Dark, cold, lonely. Nothing would survive. Plants would die out, life would be impossible to maintain. He’s so full of light, so pure. 

I’ve tried to convince him to not blame himself, but I haven’t made much progress. I’ll notice his lip start to quiver just the slightest, and I’ll immediately shut up. I never want to be the reason he’s hurting, so I figure it’s wise to just drop it and change the subject.

“Shit, Simon, I’m sorry. I’m making you deal with me, all drunk and now hungover, and this is probably really hard for you,” I say as I look into the glass. The liquid is a dark burgundy color, and it looks thick and lumpy. Simon reaches over and my right and into his left. 

“Baz, I wasn’t talking about  _ that.  _ I was talking about friends. I went to college, remember?” He says that with a laugh. “My friends got drunk almost every weekend, and I was always the designated driver and designated mom friend. I’d nurse everyone back to sobriety. It helped me become stronger to all that.” He tugs on my hand, forcing me to look up at him. His big, ordinarily blue eyes dig into mine, like he’s trying to unpack everything going on in my head. There isn’t really much; just neverending throbbing and remorse. “It’s fine, love, really. It’s not like you were violent or aggressive when drunk. In fact, you were actually pretty cute, and funny.” 

The instant realization that I'm at Simon’s house and not my own comes crashing back to me. I put my elbows on the table and shove my face into my hands, “Jesus Christ, what did I do last night?” It’s worth mentioning that I don’t remember anything after 10 pm. 

“You drunk texted me, like a lot. I liked that. I offered to pick you up but you said you’d take a cab home and I didn’t hear from you for almost an hour. Then you showed up at my door after midnight and couldn’t stop laughing ‘cuz I promised you chicken nuggets. And then you spent like fifteen minutes throwing up in my bathroom and then I put you to bed. You snore, by the way. We didn’t… do anything, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He continues to eat his food.

“So if we didn’t do anything, why is none of the clothes I’m wearing my own?” He looks up and stifles a laugh. 

“First of all, I figured sleeping is a lot better in loungewear than night-out clothes, so I lent you some of my clothes. And your shirt was covered in questionable food stains, and then you got a little puke on the collar, so I have it soaking. Don’t know how meticulous you are about your laundry, so I followed the care instructions on the tag. And while you looked devilishly handsome in your pants, I don’t think they would’ve been much comfortable to sleep in. I hung those up, they’re in my closet. You can keep the hoodie you’re wearing, by the way. It looks better on you than it does me.” 

“So you’re saying you saw me naked?” I try to not let my face show what I’m feeling. Part of me wishes he saw me naked, but part of me wants to punch myself for putting Simon in the position of caretaker. 

“Yes? Not entirely, I mean, you needed my help getting dressed but neither you or I took off your underpants and I took off your shirt and put on the hoodie and  _ then  _ took off your pants so you were never entirely without clothes. But you did say you wanted me to see you naked, Mr.  _ Rockin Bod. _ ” 

“Please tell me I didn’t actually say that.”

“You did, and you were very adamant about me sleeping in your arms, as well.”

I’ve never been more embarrassed. I take my face out of my hands and lean back in my seat. “Well, Mr. Salisbury, it’s been a pleasure, but I am going to go die in a hole now. Thank you for the hangover cure that tastes like roadkill, I sure hope it works.” Simon starts laughing, that honey laugh, the laugh that can only come from someone so pure that has been through so much. He gets out of his chair and walks towards to hug me, wrapping his arms around my head and pressing my face into his bare chest. He smells like smoke and fabric softener. It’s oddly comforting. 

“Don’t ever apologize for me taking care of you. I’d do it any day if it meant constantly having you around.”

I pull away and look up at him. “I don’t deserve you.” He smiles at me lovingly. 

“You’re the only one who deserves me,” he says as he leans down, taking one hand to tilt my chin up and kissing me, slowly and passionately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all notice how baz said he didn't need simon to pick him up cuz he'd take an uber home... and then proceeded to go to simon's instead of his own loft... cuz he considers simon as home... god romance like this can only be written i swear
> 
> btw i picture rosie as a border collie with blonde fur so google that if youd like some reference
> 
> also for those of you who don't speak spanish, Baz said "my bed is your bed is my bed"
> 
> it constantly dawns on me that you guys dont know what goes on inside my head, so if you feel like there's any plot holes or anything you dont understand pls let me know in the comments and ill clear them up there or try to clear them up in future chapters
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. it wasn't my intention, but school was really overwhelming, causing my mental health to go on a downward spiral. mental health issues tend to result in severe writers block for me. usually, i take a two day break after publishing to start writing again, but this time called for over a week.
> 
> that being said, i feel like the buildup in this chapter isnt my best work, but i put my all into making it great for my standards
> 
> I'll try to pick up the pace, but I'm going on a family vacation next week, so it'll take me a while to push the next chapter out, sorry :/
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

SIMON 

Seeing Baz in a museum is like seeing a child in a candy shop or a toy store. It’s like seeing me in an art supply store or a bakery. He’s just so _enthusiastic_ about everything. And he knows _so much._ I used to think that Penny was the smartest person I knew. I mean, she fast-tracked her major in environmental science, graduating with a master's merely five years after graduating high school. She teaches environmental science at NYU, which is how she met Baz, actually. Their offices are across from each other. She’s always been insistent in getting to know her neighbors. She likes to know everyone, yet insists that having more friends than fingers on one hand is unnecessary. I’ve learned to stop arguing with her about that. She’s right like ninety-eight percent of the time. My point is, Baz definitely gives Penny a run for her money. He knows so much about everything. He can give me at least three facts about anything I point out. I can point out a statue and he’ll give me the artist’s name and where they’re from, and then tell me about their “muse” (his exact words). It’s fascinating. 

I’ve stopped paying attention to the art and sculptures and the exhibits. I’m really just watching Baz point out details in art that wouldn’t be known or visible to someone else. I mean, I’m an art teacher, and I majored in art, but I don’t have even an ounce of the attention to detail Baz has. I’d never be able to point out a discrepancy or imperfection in art. Then again, I’m not one for historical art. I love modern art, or street art, but even learning about the Renaissance put me to sleep in grade school. I’m no longer looking at what he’s talking about, I’m looking at him. I’m watching the way his mouth quirks up when something interests him more than the previous thing he was talking about. I’m enjoying my hand in his. He grabbed it when I got distracted by a Viking sword. He hasn’t let go of my hand since. 

One of my favorite things about Baz is his hands. They’re slightly bigger than mine, and he has long, nimble fingers. His fingertips are slightly calloused-- from playing the violin, he said-- but his palms are always soft. And holding his hand never becomes uncomfortable. Normally, if I were to hold hands with someone, our hands would get sweaty super quickly. But Baz is always cold, and I’m always warm, so it creates a perfect balance. 

Baz looks devilishly handsome today. The weather has been in our favor lately, and it’s been an entire _experience_ seeing Baz’s full fashion sense. On a normal day, he’ll dress very professional, with his suits and ties and single-colored shirts, but when he has the day off, he wears a lot of light colors and florals. I like them; I’m a sucker for flowers and everything Baz wears compliments him perfectly. Right now he’s wearing a cream-colored shirt with sunflowers that look more painted than printed, the yellow from the petals and the greens from the stems and leaves covering most of the light backsplash. He’s got the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms are doing something to me I can’t even describe. He’s wearing green chinos that match the green on the shirt, and they hug his ass in a way that makes it look like it belongs in this museum. He has his hair pulled away from his face in a half-up-half-down look. He’s been wearing it like that more often ever since I told him I like it like that. 

“What do you think, Snow?” Baz asks. He squeezes my hand, snapping me out of my trance. 

“Hmm?” I hum back in response, trying to see if I recall anything he was saying. He’s just so distracting, the way he becomes so entwined with his surroundings in the museum.

“I said, ‘how about we see one more exhibit and go get lunch?’ I can hear your stomach grumbling from here,” he says, leading me past statues from an era I can’t even identify.

“That sounds good.” He continues pulling me through the Met, explaining different points in history and how they’re still relevant today. I’ve never liked history. It was my weakest subject in school, and I never found it important. Why should I know about why some white dude came to Virginia like four-hundred years ago? It _already happened_. There’s no point in learning it, no one’s conquering anymore land nowadays. I took a civil rights class in college, and that was the only part of history I found interesting, only because it happened less than a hundred years ago. But Baz seems to love history, and he’s really good at remembering everything, because he’s just good at _everything._

Everything is essentially an understatement. Did you know that Baz can figure skate? Because I didn’t, and I found out that he could while he was showing off while we were skating, and I got so distracted I crashed right into the wall and fell on my ass. He had to help me up, and then he told me he never even had lessons. He’s just “naturally” good at it. Rat bastard. I love that about him. That being said, he held my hand the entire time to make up for showing off, so I had fun in the end. My boyfriend’s so damn talented, and I know I’ll never live up to that. 

I feel him squeeze my hand again. “Simon, you’re staring.”

I smile at him. “You’re just so beautiful, I’m considering leaving you in this museum with all the other pieces of art.” He bites his bottom lip and starts to blush. If I had a list of things about Baz that make my stomach jump, his blush would definitely be on it. It’s not that noticeable at first, his yellow undertones concealing the rosy color. But if you pay close attention, you can see as it spreads across the apples of his cheeks like a paintbrush on a blank canvas.

“C’mon, _ya amar_ , let’s get some food in your system.” He proceeds to lead me towards the exit, giving a polite nod to the people at the information desk and the security guards at the door. 

“Wait, what does that mean? You know I can barely speak English as it is.” Baz has gotten into the habit of calling me things in different languages. Like I said, he’s so smart, and hearing different pet names makes me swoon. I’ve only understood _amor,_ which I found out is love in Spanish, and _mon chéri,_ which is darling in french. But he’s spewed so many at me, and he doesn’t even tell me what they mean. 

“It’s Arabic. My mom used to call me that as a kid, and I’m not going to tell you what it means.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“I know,” he smiles at me. “Do you want a sandwich? I know a really good place nearby.”

“Sure, but only if we eat in the park, on the grass, under the shade.” He playfully shakes his head, pulling my hand up and placing a kiss on it.

“Anything for you, darling.” We continue down Fifth Avenue to a quaint little sandwich shop. Baz lets go of my hand and walks up to the counter. I let him order for me. He knows the menu better than I do, and I’ll eat pretty much anything that comes between two slices of bread. I take a seat while I wait for him when I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out to see a notification from my mom. 

**Momager (Saturday 3:36pm):** hey rosebud, how’s the date going?

I’ve talked to my mom about Baz a little more than I’d like to admit. I’ve always had an open relationship with my mom, so she’s pretty much the first person I go to when I have news, good or bad. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I told her Baz asked me to be his boyfriend literally the day after it happened. She’s always asking me about him whenever we talk, and she wonders when I’ll bring him to Long Island every time I go visit. We’ve been together a couple months now, and I’ve mentioned my mom to him and how she wanted to meet him, but all he’s ever said is that he would also like to meet her someday. He’s never exactly said when.

 **Me ( 3:36pm):** great, we just left the museum and we’re getting lunch now

 **Momager (3:37pm):** will you be coming down to the shop later?

Like I had said, she’s been dying to meet Baz for a while. I figured since we were so close to the shop-- it’s like five blocks away from the sandwich shop we’re at right now-- I’d invite him there for some dessert, and they can meet. I haven’t told him. I want it to be a surprise, but I feel like Baz might get mad at me for springing such a surprise on him. 

**Me (3:38pm):** I think so. Should be by in about an hour.

Baz comes up to the table with a paper bag in his hand. He reaches his empty hand towards me and I take it. We walk hand in hand towards the Sheep Meadow, where we find a clean, dry patch of grass under a tree to eat lunch.

“Snow, I’m not sitting on the ground, I’ll get grass stains on my pants,” Baz complains as I sit on the grass, my legs splayed out in front of me. 

“Baz, don’t be ridiculous, You’re not going to get grass stains; your pants are already green.” I tug on his arm, but he refuses to sit down. 

“Jesus Christ, Snow, you should’ve brought a blanket or something to sit on. Besides, grass stains are easier to get out of jeans than khaki. I’ve told you that.”

“You’re more than welcome to sit on my lap so you don’t get grass stains on your precious pants,” I say as I let go of his arm and start to unpack our lunch. 

“You’re ridiculous,’’ he says in defeat as he sits next to me, quickly placing his hand on my thigh and leaning over to kiss me. He takes his sandwich and starts to unwrap it, taking a small bite out of it. 

“We should’ve brought Rosie,” I say casually as I watch two people throw a frisbee back and forth, a stubby-legged corgi bouncing between the two of them, making an adorable attempt to catch the frisbee. 

“Snow, you do realize we were just at a _museum,_ right? They wouldn’t have let Rosie in with us, and you hate leaving her tied up outside.” Baz treats Rosie like she’s his own dog. One time, he walked into my apartment with PetSmart bags _full_ of toys and sweaters, saying that she deserves to be pampered. And Rosie’s become attached to Baz almost as much as I have. He and I will be sitting on the couch eating dinner (which he hates, by the way. Says my couch is becoming more crumbs than upholstery) and Rosie will beg him for food instead of me. She always begs me for food when it’s me and Penny. Part of me feels a little jealous, y’know, cuz I raised her and all, but the other part of me feels warmth and affection for the both of them. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We should still take Rosie to a park sometime soon. I haven’t taken her to the dog park in a while.” We continue to sit there in silence, basking in the warm sunlight and cool springtime breeze. I start to get nervous, I feel like I should tell him that I’m taking him to meet my mom. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’d want to know if I was meeting his parents, right? Yeah, I’m gonna tell him. 

“Baz?” I look over at him. He’s laying on the grass entirely, disregarding his previous complaints of grass stains. His eyes are closed. He looks so peaceful. He hums in response. 

“Um, would you like to get some dessert?” I should just tell him upfront. I shouldn’t play around. He opens one eye, his silver iris peering into my soul.

“Simon, why do you sound nervous about getting dessert? You love dessert.”

“I- uh. There’s this really nice place not too far from here. They sell the best cherry scones on the planet. I was wondering if you’d like to go get some.”

“Cariño,” (sweetie, Spanish) “I’m pretty sure, no matter how good those scones are, that isn’t the reason you sound torn up.” He sits up and takes my hands in his, placing them on his lap. “Talk to me.” 

“Well, uh, it’s--the shop, it’s my mom’s. She, uh, she knows we’re nearby and wants to meet you.” I pause for a brief second and take a deep breath. “I want you to meet her.” I look at him and study his face. His expression is neutral. But not the neutral, stone-cold face I’ve seen when he’s focused or bothered. He’s emotionless but soft. It’s the face he makes when he’s thinking, or when we’re just sitting on the couch watching TV together.

“Right now?” There’s a small wrinkle between his brows. I want to rub it off. Or kiss it. Most likely kiss it.

“Well, uh, yeah? We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

His grip on my hands tighten. I don’t know what face I’m making, but I’m sure he can read it like a book. 

“No, no, love, I do want to. It’s just that normally I’d appreciate a little heads up when it comes to meeting parents. I like to lay out my talking points.” 

“You sure?” I can feel my heart rate slow down. He’s not mad.

“Yeah, of course. I’d do anything for you,” he says, leaning in and placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Is she expecting us now?”

“Um, she said to head down once we’re done with lunch.” 

“Then we should get going.” He starts to take all our trash and putting it into the empty sandwich bag, quickly standing up and putting a hand out to help me up. I take it. He starts to walk ahead of me to throw the bag into a trash bin. I notice a light layer of dirt on his pants, and an opportunity arises. I jog up to him and begin to dust off his pants, lightly patting his butt. He didn’t expect it, obviously, so he tenses for a brief second. 

“Simon, we’re in public,” he says, a wonderful light crimson color spreading across his face.

“And?” I’ve never been against PDA. Why should I try to hide that I care about the person I’m with? I’m a sucker for hand holding and random hugs and sneaking kisses. 

Baz turns and wraps his hands around my waist. “You’re a lovesick moron.” He pulls me in for a quick yet passionate kiss. “Lead the way.”

I’m not worried. Mom is the kind of person who likes everyone before she meets them. She’s loving and caring and will treat anyone like her own child. She was always my number one person growing up, always there for me when things got rough. When my dad wasn’t around, she and I were thick as thieves. She’d teach me her recipes and buy me new art materials. She always hung my latest artwork on the fridge. She was my best friend up until I met Penny, and it took Penny a while to even bump her down. I want Baz to like her. I feel like he will. I have a tight circle, and it’s important to me that the people in it like each other.

BAZ 

I’ve never been in a relationship with someone where I was nervous to meet their parents. I guess the reason I’m so nervous about meeting Simon’s mom is because I’ve never cared about the person I’m in the relationship with as much as I care about Simon. I’d do anything to make him happy. 

I’ve always been pretty good with parents. I’m good with adults, in general. I grew up making conversation with financial advisors from my father’s company and people who buy suits that are worth my student’s college tuition. I matured rather early. Talking to adults always came easy to me as a teen, even as a kid. 

As for relationships, I like to know a bit about parents before I meet them. Not that Simon has never talked to me about his mom. He’s told me quite a bit, so I have a profile of her in my head. I just hope she likes me. I don’t know what it would do to Simon if the people he cares about don’t get along.   
I want him to know that I’m not mad at him for not telling me sooner. I can tell he’s nervous; he’s holding onto my hand a little tighter than usual, and he’ll pull on a curl on the back of his head every minute or so. 

We turn at a corner when Simon stops in front of a shop with big windows. I look up at the khaki-colored awning. The name _Salisbury’s Sweets_ is printed in soft bubble letters, tiny stars sprinkled around the letters. Simon guides me into the bakery, and I’m met with the comforting scent of coffee, vanilla, and fresh-baked bread. Kind of like Simon. There are variety of seating arrangements in the shop; a corner with cushioned seats covered in embroidered pillows and a medium-sized coffee table in front of it, currently occupied by a couple of teenagers typing away at their laptops and scribbling into notebooks, a series of two and four-person tables, and a floating bar table with a couple stools. It’s cozy. There are three employees working behind the food display. It’s full of a variety of pastries and desserts: chocolate chip croissants, brownies, cupcakes, apple tarts, danishes, a selection of cookies, muffins, and of course, various flavors of scones. 

Simon leads me towards the counter and greets the girl working behind the register. He asks for his mom. The girl smiles and nods at him, and then proceeds to go through the swing door. About a minute later, a woman wearing a green apron covered in flour comes out, a very familiar smile on her face. 

I’ve seen the pictures of his mom that Simon has in his apartment, and they definitely look related in pictures, but I never realized _how much_ they look alike. Simon has all of her features but in slightly darker colors. Her skin is lighter than his, not as tawny. And her hair is baby blonde, compared to his golden color, but the exact same texture. Equally as curly as his. She has half of it pulled back, similar to my current hairstyle. Her eyes are blue, but they’re a brighter blue than Simon’s. She also has a pattern of freckles on her face, sprinkled over her nose. Simon’s are darker, more prominent. One difference between the two is their height. Lucy is just at his shoulder. I guess he gets his height from his father. 

I can see Simon’s eyes light up when he sees her. She smiles at him, a soft, sincere smile you could only see in a mother. He goes around the counter to hug her, completely disregarding the mess of flour on her apron. 

“Hey, Mom,” he says into the top of her head. They break apart, and she takes her apron off and hangs it up near the counter. 

“Hi, Rosebud, I’m so glad you made it.” She wipes her hands on a damp rag before looking at me. She and Simon continue to walk around the counter until they’re in front of me. “Simon,” she begins, quickly looking at him, “are you going to introduce us or am I going to have to do it myself?” 

“Oh, uh, yeah. Duh.” He comes to my side and wraps his hand around my waist. “Mom, this is Baz, my boyfriend. Baz, this is my mom, Lucy.” 

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Salisbury,” I introduce myself and put my hand out. I expect her to take my hand, but she gives me a half hug instead.

“To hell with formalities, Baz, call me Lucy,” she says as we break apart. “You’ve got a sturdy one, here, Simon,” she tells him as she squeezes my arm. I see a beautiful blush spread on his face. “Would you boys like something to eat or drink?” I look at Simon and he nods for us. “Great, I’ll get you guys something and we’ll sit and get to know each other.”

“Sounds good, Mom.” Lucy heads back behind the counter and Simon and I take a seat at a small, round table. Simon sits next to me, and he places his hand on my thigh, lightly stroking it up and down. 

“I think she likes you, Mom usually likes everyone. Plus, I think you’re really good at first impressions, so I don’t think you should worry,” he assures me, a gentle smile on his face. I want to kiss him as a thank you, but I don’t think a mini make-out session in front of your boyfriend’s mom is exactly first impression material. So, instead, I place my hand on his knee and give it a tight squeeze, just as a thank you. Soon enough, Lucy comes back with a tray and places it on the table in front of me.

“Simon, dear, I brought you your usual; hot chocolate and sour cherry scones. Baz, I brought you a pumpkin mocha breve and a fresh croissant,” she says as she places the plates in front of us. 

“Pumpkin mocha breve?” I’ve never heard of one; it sounds completely made up. The mug in front of me is quite large, and it smells distinctly of chocolate, pumpkin, and espresso. Lucy furrows her brows in the same way Simon does.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Basilton,” she commands, taking her cup of tea and softly blowing into it. Simon laughs beside me, a couple of crumbs flying out from his lips.   
“Mom always knows what you want before you yourself even knows. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like what she whipped up,” he says, mouth full of half a scone. 

I raise an eyebrow at both of them. “If you say so.” I pick up the mug, letting the warmth seep into my always-cold hands. I take a quick sip, careful to not let it burn my tongue. The flavor is comforting, to say the least. It’s smooth and warm and has a nice mix of pumpkin and chocolate and espresso that isn’t too bitter but doesn’t get lost in the sweetness of it all. “Oh my god,” I start as I down the last gulp, “this is amazing.”

“Told you,” Lucy gawks at me, picking at the blueberry tart in front of her. “Now, Baz, tell me about yourself. I want to know what has my rosebud making googly eyes at you the same way he’d look at scones when he was younger.”

“ _Mom,_ ” Simon groans at her before I can start. 

“Hush, dear, I’m your mother, and your boyfriend here is trying to say something.” 

I take a quick sip of my drink before starting, “Well, I grew up in Northbury; my parents still live there. I’m an only child. I studied at Columbia, where I got both my bachelor’s and my master’s degrees. I currently teach at NYU, along with Penelope. I like to play classical music on my violin--”

“Which you still haven’t played for me, by the way,” Simon cuts me off, as-a-matter-of-factly. 

“All in due time, love.” I can see a smile forming at Lucy’s lip as Simon blushes.

“That’s all very interesting, but you’ve barely scratched the surface of who you are. I want to know something deep, something that is, just, super _Basilton,_ you know?” If I had any doubts that Lucy was Simon’s mom, that last sentence would’ve extinguished all my doubts. That’s such a _Simon_ thing to say.

“So you want something no one really knows?” She nods at me. “Um, hmm, okay. One thing not that many people know about me is that I’m afraid of the dark. Now, before you tell me that’s not ‘deep’ or whatever, let me tell you the story why. When I was in grade school, my cousin, Dev, and I had been playing spies. We had planned to spy on my father, in his office, which he strictly forbade. Anyways, my father had a trunk that was a perfect fit for a lanky nine year old, so I hid in there while my cousin hid behind one of the filing cabinets in my father’s office. My father, for some reason still unknown to me today, decided that the best time to lock the trunk was when, unbeknownst to him, his only son was trapped inside. He left the house soon after, with the key, and I was trapped inside of it for almost four hours. That’s why I’m afraid of the dark. I can’t be left alone in a dark room for too long or I’ll start to panic. Moral of the story is, don’t hide in trunks that have locks.”

I glance at Simon and see a frown of worry spread across his lips. I rub his thigh in effort to reassure him that it’s no big deal. Lucy, on the other hand, is beaming, like a chemist who figured out the right formula, or a baker who figured out just how much of an ingredient to add. 

“Now _that’s_ what I wanted to hear!” Lucy lets out with a laugh. We continue to eat and chat, the soft glow of the lights becoming stronger as the sun goes down. Lucy tells me about her brother and her family, as well as stories about Simon I’d never be able to get out of him myself. Apparently, Simon desperately wanted frosted tips as a kid. Now _that’s_ an image I never thought I’d have in my head. I tell Lucy more about my family and my upbringing, and she and Simon tell me stories about living in Long Island. We talk until the last of employees taps Lucy on the shoulder to say bye, and we’re suddenly reminded of the time. We all begin to stand, Simon taking our plates and heading to the back kitchen like he owns the place. It’s just me and Lucy now. She steps forward, slightly closing the gap between us, the look of concerned mother on her face making me feel small, despite our great height difference. 

“Baz, I assume you know a bit about the darkness in Simon’s past, right?” I nod at her. “I have tried my hardest to help my boy grow despite that, and I can read him like a children’s book. I’m used to him having a small circle, just me, my mother, and Penny. But I can see the sparkle in his eyes every time he looks at you. You’re important to him, Baz, therefore you’re now important to me. I really enjoyed meeting you. You make my son very happy. I want you to know that you’re welcome here any time, okay?”

“I understand. And it was a pleasure meeting you, as well.” Lucy extends her arms and I receive a hug from her. It’s warm and comforting, and I get a faint sensation that reminds me of Simon’s embrace. 

“I suppose I don’t have to give you the ‘you-hurt-my-son-and-I’ll-kill-you’ threat, right?” She asks into my chest, a small chuckle in her voice. We break apart and I look at her.

“I sure hope not,” I reply, a grin on my face that I couldn’t hold back. She rubs my arm and then starts to push the chairs back into their place. Simon then walks out of the kitchen and goes to hug Lucy goodbye. 

“I’ll see you soon, Mom. Tell Gran I said hi,” he says into the top of her head. She nods. 

“Love you, sweetheart. Tell Penelope I said hi.” Simon smiles at her and then comes to me, taking my hand in his and interlocking our fingers. He leads me out to the sidewalk, the crisp evening air raising goosebumps on my arm. 

“I think she liked you,” he says, squeezing my hand a little bit.

“Yeah, I liked her, too.” I stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and I yank him towards me, pulling him into a quick kiss, and he smiles at me when we break. That smile of a thousand suns, bright and hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> few notes for the chapter:
> 
> 1) simon and I are literally the same person any opinion he's presented is most likely mine. I'm pushing so much of my own energy into writing simon so if you ever wonder what im like imagine simon as a 17 y/o hispanic girl
> 
> 2) everything simon said about history is my true opinion. anything that happened before 1910 is irrelevant and i'll fight anyone who disagrees with me 
> 
> 3) ya amar (يا قمر) means 'my moon' in arabic but im not entirely sure. I googled endearment terms in different languages, and I do not speak arabic, correct me if i'm wrong.
> 
> 4) sorry if this chapter seems a little rushed. i wanted to get it out before i left for my trip, but i started to lose interest in it while writing it (y'know, mental health issues and all). i pushed through, though, so woohoo for that
> 
> Let me know what you think! Kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short and sweet one cuz I feel bad for making you guys wait so long

BAZ

I’m about to walk out of my loft when I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I take it out and see the picture I took of Simon, him asleep on his couch with Rosie, in her 36-pound glory, curled up on his chest. My heart warms at the sight. I swipe the screen and put it by my ear mere milliseconds before I hear my name blasted through the small speaker.

“ _ BAZ! _ ” My idiot boyfriend screams into my ear.

“Snow!” I respond, mocking his enthusiasm.

“Have you left your place yet?” He sounds desperate.

“Babe, I know I’m running late, but I’m walking out the door right now,” I respond as I grab my bag and keys.

“No! Turn around and get your violin.”

“My violin? Why?”

“Don’t ask. I have an idea. And, baby, I swear, if you show up empty-handed I won’t let you in.”

“Alright, don’t worry. I’ll grab it right now.” I turn around and go into the living room, next to the balcony door where my violin case is propped up against the wall. I grab it and head out the door.

A light springtime breeze flows through my hair as I make my way down the sidewalk towards the subway station. The trip to Simon’s is always shorter when I think about him. We’ve planned a lazy afternoon, where Simon’s promised me he’d cook me dinner. Our relationship has gotten better and better as time goes on. It’s easy; I’ve never felt like I’m constantly trying to make an effort. We spend a lot of time together, whether it be going on small dates or coming to one another’s apartments and grading papers and school assignments at the dinner table. That’s how simple our relationship is-- we could be knee-deep in work, yet still manage to be in each other's presence. 

It’s Friday, towards the end of May, and I’ve just finished grading all my students’ finals, so I’m looking forward to a night in with my boyfriend. I think the best part of being a college professor is watching the life drain from the eyes of my students when I asked them to write an essay on the book I assigned but they never actually read. It was what I hated the most in college, and there’s no way I was letting my students off the hook with an easy final.

I get onto the train and sit in the spot closest to the door. I place my violin case between my legs to keep it from falling. About two stops into the ride, I notice the guy sitting in front of me looking me up and down. He has a smug look on his face, one corner of his mouth quirked up. I make eye contact with him and raise an eyebrow.

“You play?” he asks, a cool and casual tone in his voice. And flirtatious. I already don’t want to deal with this, and this-- for lack of a better word-- conversation hasn’t even started. 

“One would assume that if I’m carrying an instrument case, I play whatever instrument is in it, no?” I respond in a sour tone. That doesn’t get this stranger to look away. Instead, he laughs and shrugs. A shrug that in no way compares to Simon’s.

He smirks. “Maybe we should get together some night and you can play for me. Maybe over a glass of wine?” Unbelievable. Why aren’t people smart enough to take signals? I’ve been uninterested since I noticed him looking at me.

“I can’t, actually. My boyfriend doesn’t drink, and I don’t play for people I don’t like,” I say as I lean back and avert my eyes, checking the map to see how many stops I have left until I get to Simon’s. The train comes to a stop and the stranger stands out of his seat. He walks towards the open door and hands me a tiny slip of paper. I look up at him, disgust and boredom in my eyes. 

He winks at me. “Just in case you change your mind. Or if you’d really like, your boyfriend is more than welcome to join us.” With that, he steps off the train just before the doors close. I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they haven’t fallen out of my head. This train ride is usually short, but right now it feels like it’s going on forever. I take out my phone and start swiping at it, checking to see if there’s any more messages from Simon. It’s a hopeless gesture, really. Anyone who’s anyone knows you don’t get signal on the subway. After an eternity, the train reaches my stop. I grab my bag and violin case and head out, tossing the slip of paper in the nearest trash can before I make my way up the steps. Simon lives relatively close to the subway station, so I’m at his apartment building in a matter of minutes. 

I make my way up the steps and through the building entrance. Simon told me that I never had to wait for him to buzz me in. 

“The front doesn’t lock; some punk broke it and the super never bothered to fix it.” He had told me between laughs and a shrug.

“That’s kind of unsafe, don’t you think?” I responded. He just shrugged at me again.

“Eh, it’s New York, technically everything is unsafe.” I laughed and that was the end of the conversation.

Simon’s building has ten floors, no elevators, and I thank whoever is listening that Simon chose the apartment on the third floor. I knock on his front door and can immediately hear Rosie’s nails tapping against the hardwood. A couple seconds later, Simon opens the door and crashes into me before I can even step into the room. He slams his lips against mine, and I pull him in closer with the arm not holding my violin with. His arms are wrapping around my neck even tighter. After a good minute, Simon breaks the  kiss and leans his forehead on mine, slightly out of breath.

“Snow, as much as I enjoy making out with you, could we maybe wait until we’re in the privacy of your home? You know the lady from across the hall spends most of her time looking through the peephole.” I say, reveling in his presence. He loosens his embrace around my arms and laughs lightly.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says as he takes my violin out of my hands and walks into his apartment. I close the door behind me as he sets my violin next to the door. I put my bag down next to it right before he comes up to me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I missed you,” he sighs into my neck. I hum in response. I missed him too. We hadn’t had the chance to see each other this week. 

“What do you have planned for us today, cariad?” He lets go of me and starts heading back to the kitchen. 

“Well, I’m going to make you dinner, we’ll eat, and then I’m gonna make you sour cherry scones while you play the violin for me,” he says as he puts a tray in the oven.

“Mmm, so that’s why you had me bring my violin.”

He shrugs as he leans on the counter, looking beautiful as ever. “Yeah, thought it’d be romantic.”

I walk toward him and kiss him on the cheek. “You’re such a sap.”

A light blush creeps up his cheeks. “You love it,” he responds in a bashful tone. Simon turns and continues to work on our food. I’m not one for cooking much. I don’t eat a lot and can get by with the few meals I know how to make. But Simon is an excellent cook. He likes to make family recipes, mainly, but doesn’t shy away from trying something new. He learned how to cook from his grandmother. And it shows. Every bite I take is like a spoonful of home. 

I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder, the back of my hand rubbing his stomach over his t-shirt. He hums and leans his head on mine. “Baz, you’re going to distract me and I won’t be able to make dinner,” he says, putting down whatever utensil he’s working with. I kiss his neck. \

“I’m not that hungry anyway,” I say into the crook of his neck. He laughs and then continues to work. I ask him what he’s making and he tells me he’s preparing spaghetti squash with grilled chicken and a lemon-parmesan sauce. He explains the recipe as he prepares it, my arms still locked around his waist and my chin probably hurting his shoulder. I watch intently as he chops and stirs and mixes all the ingredients. Soon enough, we’re sitting at his small dining table, talking about our week over the food. 

Once Simon finishes his meal, he claps his hands and says, “Well, I hope you’re well-fed, because I need you to channel all of this new energy into the violin.” He gets up and takes my plate from in front of me. I get up and start to unpack my violin, quickly tightening my bow and tuning my violin. I can hear Simon clanging around in the kitchen, getting his supplies ready to make the scones. I pull up a chair to the entryway of the kitchen, where I can see him and he could easily see me. I start doing warmups and I can see a smile grow on his face. 

“What would you like me to play?” 

“Anything,” he responds as he chops up butter. "You just sit there, play your violin, and look pretty." He looks beautiful, entirely in his element. I love him.

Part of me knows that I’ve loved Simon Snow Salisbury since the day I met him. I’ve loved everything about him. The way he talks about things he’s passionate about; his students, his artwork, his dog, his desserts, his family. I love how he looks when he first wakes up in the morning. Hair all ruffled, one side an uncontrollable mess of curls, the other flat from his pillow. I love the way he laughs at anything I say. I love how he knows if I’ve had a rough day just by the sound of my voice. I love how he knows where all of my soft spots are. I love how he knows that I prefer to hold his left hand. I love how he’s made our relationship so effortless. And I’ve wanted to tell him for the longest time. I just never thought I’d tell him like this. 

“ _ No! _ ” Simon yells, immediately grabbing my attention. His stand mixer hadn’t been working, so he was flipping the switches every which way, not realizing that he had to reset the outlet. Unbeknownst to him, he had left the mixer set to the highest speed. So now, here he is, sitting on his kitchen floor, flour covering his face and kitchen, pouting at his accident. And here’s me, trying to contain my laughter but failing miserably. 

“God, Simon, I love you so much,” I say between laughs and breaths. I freeze once I realize it slipped out. This wasn’t how I planned to tell him. I was going to do it eventually, but I wanted to do it on a date or on one of our walks. Not when there was a cloud of flour in the room and my knees going weak from amusement. Simon’s eyes go wide as he looks at me. He slowly gets up, his smile growing as he gets closer.

“You love me?”

I sigh and nod my head. “Yes, Simon, I love you. Almost since we met, I’ve loved you. You’re such a ray of fucking sunshine, how couldn’t I love you? I think about you all the damn time, and I know I don’t deserve someone as good as you, but I love you so damn much,” I confess, looking deep into those crystal eyes. Simon puts his arms around my neck and kisses me, deep and hard and passionately, in a manner that greatly mimics our first kiss. 

“I love you, too,” he says into my lips. “God, I love you so much, I've been wanting to tell you for a while, but I thought it was too soon. I love you, you beautiful bastard.” He says all of that between kisses.

“Simon, you’re getting flour all over me,” I say as I break apart and press my forehead against his.

He chuckles. “I should probably shower then, right?” I nod. “Would you… would you like to join me?”

“ _ Simon… _ ”

“Oh, shut up, you  _ love  _ me.” He takes my hand, leading me towards the bathroom.

“That I do,” I respond, completely disregarding the flour stains on my clothes and the disaster of a kitchen. “That I do.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL I HAVE NEWS!! well its not really news but like im excited about it. anyways ive come up with an idea for a new AU for simon and baz WOOHOO! i love aus and i already wrote the first chapter but i wont publish it/write more till I'm done with this story. so like... keep an eye out for more work by me :)
> 
> i have something really exciting for the next chapter. might make it a two-parter (i dont really know yet) 
> 
> also @ ao3 why tf cant i indent?? i need indents my crazy ass is over here copy and pasting 8 spaces before each paragraph just let me use my tab button
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everytime i start to write i get distracted by reading fanfics but everytime i start to read my mind goes "WRITE, YOU DUMBASS" and then i start to write and it's all just a repeating cycle which is why i can never get any work done 
> 
> anyways enjoy the chapter :)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: asshole parents, homophobia

BAZ 

Penelope’s already in the teacher’s lounge when I get there. She spammed my phone for the last hour during my lecture, telling me to meet her here when I got out. One message would’ve sufficed, but her incessant nagging got to the point where I nearly threw my phone across the room. Penelope’s head snaps up when she notices me opening the staff fridge. 

“Basil, _finally_ you’re here! What took you so long?” She exclaims, crumbs flying out of her mouth. I grimace in response.

“Penelope, I was in the middle of a lecture, and I was also _across campus._ Surely, you could’ve waited. Don’t you have the rest of the afternoon off today?” I ask as I put my lunch in the microwave. Simon packed me leftovers from last night’s dinner and I almost wept when he handed me the container of roast beef and sauteed vegetables. No one’s ever cared for me as much as he does. I kissed him silly instead of crying. After my food is done heating up, I take a seat directly in front of her as she pulls a notebook out of her bag. 

“You’re a fast walker, Baz. You could’ve been here a lot quicker. Regardless, to more pressing matters; what are you doing for Simon’s birthday?” She abruptly asks, tapping her pen against the open page of her notebook. 

I swallow my bite before answering. “Well, since his birthday is on a Friday this year, Simon and I are going to spend that day together. I’ll pick him up from work when he gets out, then we’ll go to dinner and get dessert at the cupcake place he likes, and then we’re going back to his place and we’ll probably do it in the shower or in his room, depends on where he wants it, it is his birthday after all--” I’m aggressively cut off by Penelope’s excessive fake gag.

“TMI, Basilton!”

“Grow up, Bunce, we’re all adults here. Surely, you have an interesting sex life of your own. Anyways, Simon wants to go up to his mom’s that weekend so I’m spending Friday night at his place then he’s driving up Saturday morning.” Penelope scribbles something in her notebook before looking back up at me, pushing her glasses up. 

“Okay, so here’s what you are and aren’t going to do. You _are_ going to take Simon out to dinner and whatnot but you are _not_ going to fuck him silly in his apartment,” she says, quickly going back to her notebook.

“And why am I not going to do that?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. My eyebrow quirks up. It’s a natural response at this point; I no longer do it at will. 

“Jesus Christ, Basil, be patient. I’m getting there. I was thinking it’d be a good idea if we threw him a surprise party this year. We would do it at his apartment, ‘cause I have a key and it would be easy to get him there. And his mom said she’d bring the cake and some scones, and we wouldn’t have to get much food ‘cause you’ll take him out to eat, so we’ll only get some snacks and hors d'oeuvres and drinks-- non-alcoholic, of course-- and we’ll make sure he has a good time.” 

“Of course, he’ll have a good time-- he’s with his family, best friend, and his boyfriend. Why wouldn’t he have a good time?” I ask, feeling a little cocky. Penelope puts her pen down and looks up at me, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Has he really not told you about it?” she sounds concerned

“Told me about what, Penelope?”

“I don’t think I should be the one to tell you, but I don’t think Simon is gonna tell you himself. I’ll just give you the summed up version. Simon’s never been one to celebrate his birthday.” She pauses to take a deep breath. I can feel a pit growing in my stomach. “I know Simon’s told you a bit about how much of a dick his father was. When Simon was a kid, his parents never celebrated his birthday. His dad would get mad at his mom if she ever tried to do anything, so she would sneak a scone into his room at night on his birthday, but that was it. Most of his childhood, there were discreet signs of affection from his mom and grandma on his birthday, pretty much until he was eleven. Um, that’s kinda where it got worse. Simon’s dad had been out of town the day of his birthday, so his mom took advantage of the day to throw him a party.

“A party’s an overstatement, really. All they did was take him to the diner in our hometown and then brought him home for some cake and ice cream. But while he was opening the gift his grandmother got him, his dad barged in, drunk and angry. Ruth-- that’s his grandma-- had gotten Simon a little ceramic sunflower, and his dad ripped it out of his hand and threw it on the floor in a fit. It shattered, then his mom stood up to his father, and that’s when Simon was rushed out of his house by his grandma and lived with her for two weeks. Simon doesn’t like celebrating his birthday much because it reminds him of that day, and all the days before that.” 

The pit in my stomach has taken over every nerve in my body. What am I feeling? Anger, obviously. Not at Simon for not telling me, but once again at his asshole father. 

“Why hasn’t he told me? I mean, he’s told me about his dad, but never about not liking his birthday. I’m his boyfriend, he should be able to tell me these things,” I say in a small fit of despair. Penelope lets out a sincere smile and grabs my hand, gently rubbing her thumb over my knuckles.

“Baz, I know it may not seem like it, but you and Simon are still in the honeymoon phase, at least in his eyes. Simon’s never been one to let other people care for him; he likes to bottle things up until he’s an explosion of emotion. He’s probably afraid that you’ll go running at the first sign of his baggage. Just give him time,” she says with a sincere smile. I’ve come to know that Penelope Bunce is a definite mom-friend, and I’m really glad Simon has her in his life. 

“I just wish he’d tell me these things. I don’t want him bottling these things up,” I let out with a sigh.

“All in due time, Basil. He’ll open up more eventually. As long as you’re there when he’s ready, then you have nothing to worry about.” She lets go of my hand and then goes back to her notebook. “Anyways, back to business. What time are you picking up Simon after work?”

“Four, probably.”

“Great, Lucy and I are going to start setting up around three and then you can bring him home around seven-thirty?” 

“Sure.” We continue talking about the plan for his birthday. Penny is only putting me in charge of keeping Simon away from his apartment for most of the afternoon. I finish my lunch as Penelope continues droning on about the surprise party. 

***

I don’t have any classes scheduled on Fridays (perks of being a professor, I guess), so I’m able to meet Simon at work when he gets out. I’m standing across the street of the school, leaning up against a lamppost. It’s creepy, I’m sure. Seeing a grown man standing outside of an elementary school for a while isn’t something one would simply brush off. But it’s after school hours and I don’t really care what others think of me. 

Soon enough, Simon walks out of double doors at the front of the school, walking slowly as he looks for me. He spots me and holds onto his bag a little tighter as he jogs towards me. He has that beautiful sunshine smile on his face. Once he reaches me, his lips crash into mine and I instinctively wrap my arms around his waist, holding him up so that our mouths are level. He breaks apart and presses his forehead to mine. 

“Happy birthday, Snow,” I say endearingly, loosening my grip on his back and placing one hand in his. I look him up and down, getting a better fill of him than I did before he kissed me. He’s dressed a lot more casual than I expected him to be. He’s wearing a pair of his lighter jeans and a simple button-up, and his usual black converse. There’s a powdery stain on his shirt, so I make an attempt to dust it off. Simon looks at me with his brows furrowed but then laughs. 

“Clay stains. Got a little messy with the fourth graders today. Had a little mishap with the kiln,” he says with his lips all twisted in thought. “I’m probably not dressed well enough, am I? Let’s stop by my place so I can change and feed Rosie before we head out, yeah?” _Absolutely not._

“No! Um, you can change at my place, it’s closer to the restaurant, and I’m sure Bunce won’t mind feeding Rosie tonight. C’mon.” I grab his hand and try to lead him in the direction of my apartment, but he pulls me back.

“Baz, I don’t have anything at your place. I took my stuff home because I had to do laundry, remember?”

“That’s fine, love, I have something for you to wear. A birthday present. If you will,” I say with a smirk. Simon’s smile grows a little wider and the enthusiasm in his step increases as we head back to my place.

***

Simon looks stunning in a blue suit. I took a peek at his sizes once while he was in the shower, so I was able to get him one without him knowing. It fits him perfectly. If I’m being honest, I kind of expected it to be either too big or too small. But I was wrong. The jacket fits perfectly, snug in all the right places. The navy blue hue contrasts his honey skin in a way that simply makes me want to melt. The curl cream I put in his hair has tamed his curls just a bit, and it’s also made them look a bit darker, like coffee with too much creamer. The change of contrast in his hair makes his eyes pop out even more, and he looks so beautiful. I’m considering canceling our dinner reservation and spending the evening in bed. 

Simon notices me staring at him, causing him to tilt his head and smile at me. “Like what you see?” he asks in a flirtatious voice.

“Simon Snow Salisbury, I’ve never wanted to rip clothes off a man as much as I want to right now,” I say as I walk towards him and wrap my arms around his waist. I can see the blood rushing to his cheeks, which causes me to kiss that mole he has on his cheek. “Too bad we have a dinner reservation to make.”

He clicks his tongue and shakes his head slightly. “ The night’s still young, Baz, and you have me all night,” he says as he leans in and kisses me, doing that thing with his chin that makes me melt. I break us apart before we get carried away. I take his hand in mine and begin our walk to the restaurant, making sure the door is locked behind me. 

The restaurant I chose isn’t far from me; I live in a relatively busy district. We arrive at Antoine Clément’s, a quaint French restaurant right on the edge of the island. The table I’ve reserved for us is on the deck at the far end of the restaurant, right over the Hudson. You can get a pretty nice view of New Jersey from where we’re sitting, and the sky is just starting to change color with the beginning of the sunset. It’s beautifully romantic. Simon is currently neglecting the menu in exchange for the ducklings in the river below us. He looks like he’s in pure bliss. The golden hue of the sunset is making Simon shine like he’s the sun itself, and he looks so handsome, I wish I could stay like this forever. I take my phone out and take a quick photo of him. He looks at me and smiles bashfully when he realizes what I’ve done. 

“What, am I not allowed to take pictures of the man I love?” I ask with a shrug (a damned habit I’ve picked up from him) and he blushes even more. We continue our casual conversation, pausing when a waiter with a strong french accent comes to offer us the specials. I understand everything entirely, but Simon’s mouth keeps on opening and closing like a fish out of water every time the waiter says something new. I have to explain the menu to him once the waiter leaves, but all the french cuisine confuses him to the point where he lets me order for him. Thank god he’s not a picky eater, or this would be a rather taxing experience. I order a traditional bouillabaisse for him and a coq au vin for myself, both of us with a side of french onion soup. 

Watching Simon eat is always an experience. He’s never had a genuine french meal, so he’s savoring every single bite of his meal. Halfway through his meal, I notice him eyeing mine, so I cut a piece of duck and put it on his plate, and his face lights up with excitement. I can tell he’s trying his hardest to not get any food on his suit. Every once in a while, he looks at me to make sure I’m enjoying my meal. Once we finish, our waiter comes up to us to retrieve our plates and offer us some dessert. Simon orders a cheese souffle for us to split. 

As we wait, I lean forward and take his hand in mine. I rub over his knuckles and he covers my hand with his. “Simon, I just want to say that I love you so much and I’m really glad you wanted to spend your birthday with me.”

“Baz, I hope this is the first of many birthdays we spend together, I-” he starts but is interrupted by his phone ringing. He groans and rolls his eyes as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, looking at the screen with confusion on his face. 

“Who is it?” 

“Unknown number,” he says with a shrug. “Actually, it might be the art school I applied to. They need someone to teach during the summer.” HE swipes on the screen and puts the phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

Just as he answers, I see the light drain out of Simon’s eyes, his face going pale as he listens to whoever is on the other line.

SIMON

“Simon, how are you?” It’s a voice I haven’t heard in over four years. I can feel my body tense up entirely. My mouth goes dry and my hand is struggling to keep my phone up at my ear. 

“Dad.” I notice Baz’s brows furrow in concern.

“Happy birthday, son. How have you been?” I can’t breathe. My throat is closing up. I can’t hear his voice without seeing fists flying at me. I’m no longer at a restaurant with my boyfriend. I’m in my childhood bedroom, cowering in a corner, ignoring the blood dripping from my eyebrow. I’m a weak little kid again. I suddenly feel really hot, like I’m being suffocated. 

I swallow my fear. “I, uh, I’m- I’m good, Dad. I’m having dinner with m-my… wi-with my…” I can’t continue. Why can't I speak? It’s like I’m nineteen again, coming out to him again. I remember that day vividly right now. I was spending a weekend with him in Boston, and I told him over lunch. He was furious, called me a faggot and a pansy, and punched me in the gut until I threw up my lunch. He took my backpack out of the guest room I had been staying in, grabbed me off the floor by my shirt, and kicked me out of his house, all while mumbling more slurs under his breath. I took the first train back to Long Island, crying in pain until I reached my door. It’s about eight hours by train from Boston, so when I knocked on the door at three in the morning, still crying, fresh bruises appearing all over my body, my mom let out a blood-curdling scream I hope to never hear again. She yelled at him over the phone right after she put me to bed, and kept on yelling well after I fell asleep. I haven’t seen him since. 

“Who are you with, Simon?” He asks in a curious yet malicious tone. I can feel tears pooling at my eyes. My lips are trembling, and I’m trying my damndest not to cry. I try to take a deep breath but fail. Instead, it sounds like a pathetic sob.

“I, um, I’m- I’m with my boyfriend.” My voice lowers when I say “boyfriend” and I can feel my body flinch and brace for impact as if he were here. I hear him huff in frustration over the phone, the vibration of the tiny speaker against my ear sending shivers down my spine.

“Jesus Christ, Simon.” His voice is vicious and full of hatred. “I thought you’d grown out of that phase by now. You’re twenty-seven years old now, boy. You can’t go around pretending to be something you’re not. No son of mine should be around kissing boys, pretending such a heinous act is acceptable. Grow up, Simon. Stop being an abomination to the world, you fag, or so help me-” my phone is suddenly ripped out of my hand, and a familiar hand is now resting on my shoulder. I look up and see Baz, his image a little blurred out by the tears now flowing down my face. I can tell he’s fuming. I wrap my arms against his waist and hold onto him like a lost child.

“Listen here, you prick,” he starts, a vigor in his voice I’ve never heard before. “This is Basilton, Simon’s boyfriend. My boyfriend and I are trying to have a nice dinner to celebrate  _ your son’s  _ birthday, and we would appreciate it if we could finish it without being interrupted by dicks like you. I don’t know-- no  _ you  _ listen here, asshole. I don’t know what you said to Simon, but I will not tolerate anyone, and I mean  _ anyone,  _ who makes the love of my life cry, especially on his birthday. Now, listen carefully. If I find out that you are trying to get in contact with Simon  _ ever  _ again, I swear to God, I’ll destroy everything you have. You’ll lose your job, your house, your money if I have anything to do with it. Grow a pair, and stop being an insufferable, homophobic piece of shit. See you in hell,” Baz spits into the phone before slamming it onto the table. He quickly wraps himself around me, running a hand through my hair, shushing quietly as I sob into his shirt. 

“I’m sorry, Baz, I- I sh-shouldn’t ha-have answered. He- I, I didn’t kn-know he’d call,” I apologize between sobs. 

“No no no, Simon, you have absolutely  _ nothing  _ to apologize for. You haven’t spoken to him in like four years, right? There’s  _ no way  _ you could’ve known he’d call. If anything, I’m sorry you ever had to deal with him.” He lets go of me and squats down, to the point where he’s shorter than me. He pushes my hair out of my face and wipes the tears off my face. It’s no use, they’re still coming on pretty strong. The sunset behind me makes Baz look incredibly beautiful, and my heart is pounding with love for him.

“Hey, how about we get our dessert to go and head back to your place? I’m sure Rosie’ll make you feel better,” he says with a soft expression. I sniffle and nod. “I’ll be right back, okay? You stay here.” He gets up, and I find myself missing him. I take the cloth napkin and try my best to dry my face. My phone is still screen-down on the table, and I find my hand shaking as I go to grab it. I’m squeezing it in my hand until my knuckles go white when I notice Baz come back. There are wet stains all over his burgundy shirt.

“Oh, Baz, I got tears all over your nice shirt,” I complain, still wiping tears off my face. He looks down and chuckles.

“It’s just water, Simon; it’ll dry,” he reaches a hand out for me. “Let’s go.” We walk out of the restaurant hand in hand. At the corner, Baz hails us a cab and gives the driver directions to my apartment. 

I’m still a little shaken up from the phone call. I don’t know what could’ve prompted my father to call me. I haven’t spoken to him in four years, and I haven’t seen him in almost eight. We have absolutely no business between us, so I see no reason for him to have called me and berated me about my sexuality again. I wish he no longer had all this power over me. He made me feel weak and small with just a few words.

I’m going to have to take my meds again when I get home. 

I get snapped out of my haze when Baz releases his hand from my grip and relocates it on my thigh. He reassuringly rubs my thigh, trying to make eye contact with me. “All right, love?” I simply nod.

The cab driver drops us off at the corner, and Baz leads me towards my apartment building. I notice the living room light on. Penny must’ve left it on for Rosie when she came to feed her earlier. We make our way up the stairs and towards my front door. Baz pulls me aside before I get the chance to put my key, pushing me up against the door frame. He’s dangerously close, his chest pressing into mine. “Happy Birthday, Snow,” he says as he leans in, tilting his head down before he catches my lips with his. I can taste the mint he had earlier. Baz and I have kissed a million times before, but this one is by far my favorite. He’s being gentile, and he’s taking his time, making me feel like this kiss will last forever. And maybe it’s the occasion, or the fact that he stood up to my dad for me, but I can feel my heart bursting with love for him. I pour all of that emotion and affection into the kiss, running a hand through his hair, tugging right at the base of his neck, making him moan into my mouth. After what could be a minute or an hour, Baz breaks the kiss, and I find myself leaning forward for more.

“Steady now, Snow, you’ll want to save all that energy for the bedroom,” he says, his chest rising in steady breaths. I smile and turn towards the door, opening it with adrenaline pulsing through my body.

“SURPRISE!” I’m greeted by Rosie bouncing at my hip and at least a dozen different voices yelling across the room. I look around the room and find my mom, grandmother, and even my Uncle Oliver standing by the dining table, Penny and Shepard by the hall entrance, and a few of my favorite coworkers all standing throughout the living room. I’m frozen at the door until Baz gives me a light push. I get a strong hug from Penny (I always underestimate her strength) and a pat on the back from Shepard. I go towards my family to say hi to my mom and grandma. As I’m hugging my mom, I notice Baz whispering something into Penny’s ear, and I watch as her eyes widen but she nods in understanding. They both catch me staring. I mouth a brief  _ thank you  _ at them. I get an  _ of course  _ from Penny and an  _ anything for you, love  _ from Baz. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i KNOW june 21st is not on a friday this year but the concept of time is nothing but a notion created by man and controlled by the government to mess with our minds so whos to say that june 21st is or isnt on a friday
> 
> how's everyones corona-cation going? hope yours is better than mine. mines not that great, ngl. social distancing is hitting me kinda hard, and im usually an introvert. I am hoping to get more writing done, but i still have at home instruction, so school is still a thing. in all seriousness, i hope you guys are staying healthy and sane. remember to wash your hands! 
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said i was gonna write more during coronacation? hahaha yeah turns out i lied, even to myself
> 
> anyways this is like a part two to the last chapter so enjoy :)
> 
> *TRIGGER WARNING*  
> ptsd, antidepressants, the usual stuff for this fic

SIMON

The party is going better than I expected. I’m still shaken up over the phone call, but after I explained everything to my mom, I snuck away from everyone and went to the bathroom to take my meds. Penny caught me, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of water in hand. She’s always been understanding about everything. I gave her a huge hug after.

Everyone I could possibly care for is here right now. Penny and I are at the dining table snacking on the scones my mom brought; Ebb, my mom, and my uncle are all talking on the couch, and my grandma has Baz cornered. They met once when I was video chatting with her, but this is the first time they’ve met in person. Gran’s doing an awful good job of talking his ear off, but Baz is used to awkward conversation with people he has to impress. I can only imagine what their conversation is about. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out Gran’s spoon-feeding Baz my embarrassing past to Baz, but I have been getting the occasional worried glance from Baz. 

I turn towards Penny, who’s currently giving Rosie half of her scone. “Hey, Pen, thank you, for this, for everything,” I say, picking at the bowl of chips in front of me. She looks at me and smiles sincerely. 

“Of course, you deserve a good birthday party.” She pauses and tilts her head in concern. She takes my hand out of the chip bowl and places her on top of mine. She knows I tend to fidget with anything at arms reach when I’m nervous. “How are you feeling?” 

I let out a sigh. “I’m good, better than I was earlier. Plus I have my entire support system here; you, my mom, Gran, Baz. Everyone I love is all under my roof and it’s making me feel better than I thought I would.”

“Are you going to talk to Dr. Richardson about it?” Dr. Richardson is my therapist. After my dad left, I was put into therapy with a lovely doctor, Dr. Nygard. I went to her pretty much until I graduated high school. She was the one who diagnosed me with PTSD and she helped me with my mental health all through puberty. I stopped seeing her when I moved to the city for school, and I had been relatively okay with my mental health, so I figured I would be fine if I just stopped going to therapy all together. It wasn’t until everything happened with my dad that I felt it was best to start going back. Mom felt it would be better if I had a therapist in the city, as that’s where I was living and spent all of my time. We communicated with Dr. Nygard and she connected me with Dr. Richardson, and she has been the one helping me with everything since then. I used to see her constantly while I was still in college, but things have calmed down since, so now I only go see her once a month. It’s really just a check up at this point, but she and Dr. Nygard have helped me in ways I couldn’t imagine, so I try to keep the helpline available when I need it.

“Yeah, I mean, I just saw her last week, but I think I’ll call her on Monday again and tell her. And, I had to go back on my meds, y’know, and she told me to tell her if I ever needed to.” Talking about my mental health is something that has been difficult for me since I was a kid, but I’ve known Penny for so long and she never judges me, so she helps make it a bit easier. 

“I’m proud of you, Simon.”

I chuckle lightly. “Proud of me for what?”

She shrugs-- a habit of mine I seem to rub off on people-- before she answers. “I’m just proud of you Simon. You’ve come a long way.” She pats my shoulder as she gets up. “I’m gonna go find Shepard. God knows he’s talking the ear off of someone right now. Gotta go save the poor soul.”

I’m glad Penny's found Shepard. At this point, they’re not exactly exclusive, but Penny’s been hanging out with him a lot and there’s definitely something going on between the two of them. Penny’s been a little iffy when it comes to relationships ever since she and Micah broke up. He’s an army brat, so he moved to our hometown when we were sophomores in high school. They hit it off rather easily, so I encouraged him to ask her out, and then I encouraged Penny to say yes. They were together all of sophomore year, but halfway through junior year, his family was being deployed somewhere else, so they decided to maintain a long-distance relationship. They dated all through high school, until he broke up with her our junior year of college. He had moved away for college, Penny got knee-deep in school and fast-tracking her degree, and they tried to make the long-distance work, but I guess there was a lack of communication or something.

“He called me a tornado, Simon,” she had said as she cried into my shoulder, my college roommate rolling his eyes across the room. “He said I was a force to be reckoned with, that I didn’t listen. Of course I listened, he just never talked!” 

I always thought Penny and Micah we’re going to get married; they seemed like the type. I thought that if you could make a long-distance relationship work, you could make anything work. I guess it all depends on the people. Penny’s never told me about what their relationship was like towards the end. I guess they got into a fight or something, but Penny’s always been rather silent when it comes to her problems. I’ve never asked her.

Anyways, I’m glad Penny has Shepard. He’s from Nebraska, but he moved to the city about a year ago for a job with the local news network. He’s working towards becoming an on-air meteorologist. They fit together like two puzzle pieces. Shepard used to chase tornados during the summer months. 

Once Penny’s gone, I get up from my seat and make my way towards Baz and my grandma. Gran and I have always had a strong relationship. When my parents would get into fights, I’d run to her house and we’d make pies. It was a coping mechanism I use to this day. I baked cookies, scones, pies, brownies, you name it, all through finals week. 

Gran never liked my dad much. I could practically see the weight being lifted off her shoulders when I went back home that summer and she saw his stuff was gone. 

“Simon, dear!” she exclaims as I make my way to her side. “Basil here was just telling me about his degree at Brown. Did you know that he also minored in philosophy?”

“Yeah, Gran, I did. Baz’s educational history is magnificent and extensive,” I say smiling at him, earning me a wink from him in return. 

She puts her hand on my arm. “Simon, you’ve got yourself a good one here. He’s smart, intelligent, and so very  _ handsome.  _ I wish I had myself one like him.” I can feel myself blushing at the way she’s gushing over Baz. 

“Thank you Mrs. Salisbury,” he says with a curt nod.

“I bet he’s good in bed, too.” I choke on my drink at her words, and I can see Baz’s eyes widen and that lovely blush of his make its way up his cheeks. You know Simon, your grandfather was great in bed as well. He-”

“Okay, Mom!” My mom comes and cuts her off. She’s always been one to save the day. “How ‘bout you come and help me with something in the kitchen? You no longer have to embarrass Simon and his boyfriend.” She takes Gran by the shoulders and tries to lead her away from us.

“Lucy, darling, I was only telling them about your father, bless his soul.” Mom keeps her walking and turns to look at us one more time.

“Very sorry, Basil, my mother doesn’t know how to read social cues,” she whispers, all three of us ignoring Gran’s rambling. I walk closer to Baz and take his hand in mine. He rubs my hand with his thumb as he looks down at our hands, a smile playing at his lips. 

“How are you, love?” he asks me, a delicate and careful inflection in his voice. He’s making direct eye contact with me, his grey eyes peering deep into my soul. I could get lost in his eyes. When I look into his eyes, suddenly Baz and I are the only ones in the room. I’m taken back to the nights we spend in bed, just the two of us. 

It reminds me of the one time I caught him staring at me while I was half asleep. He’d been trailing his finger up and down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. I opened my eyes to see his looking over my face. 

“Have you been staring at me this entire time?” I asked him, my voice groggy with sleep.

“Yes.”

I snuggled closer to him. “That’s weird, y’know.”

“I was counting your freckles,” he responded, wrapping his arms around me.

I laughed a bit and closed my eyes. “Why?”

“I like to know every detail about my favorite pieces of art.” I melted. Baz is and has always been so good with words, a skill I will forever lack, and I love that he has the ability to make my knees weak with his words.

“Simon?” I’m snapped back to reality when I feel him squeeze my hand a bit.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, thank you,” I put on my sincerest smile. It’s not that I’m not fine or anything, it’s just that I usually get tired and drowsy rather quickly when I take my meds a while after I’ve been off them. When I take my meds, I usually try to go straight to bed so I can avoid the side effects. But Penny and Baz have planned this evening for me, and I don’t want to seem like a dick by sending everyone home so I can sleep. I’m just going to muscle through till everyone leaves. It’s not the first time I've had to do so.

“Do you need a minute alone?” he asks me. I can see the worry playing on his forehead, that crease right between his eyebrows starting to form. I told him once that that was going to be the first wrinkle he’s getting, and he played me off by saying that his skincare regime guaranteed him wrinkle-free skin until he was at least fifty.

“Yeah, I guess I could use some fresh air.”

“Alright, love, just step out onto the fire escape and I’ll tell Penelope to keep everyone entertained for a bit.” I nod as I make my way towards my bedroom. The fire escape was one of the main reasons I chose this apartment in the first place. It’s a long fire escape, pretty much the length of my entire apartment. It has a ladder instead of stairs, so the area is already greater than your average fire escape. You can get on it from the window in the living room and the window from my bedroom. I keep potted plants on it to make it look nice, as well as two lawn chairs. Penny and I like to sit out here and read on summer nights. Rosie is petrified of stepping on here, but she likes to stare out the window. 

I lean on the railing and do the breathing exercises my therapist tells me to do. Inhale for four, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Repeat. There’s a pleasant summer breeze flowing through the night, causing the leaves of the small tree in front of my building to rustle. It;s a calming sound, really. I like to leave my bedroom window open so I can listen to the sounds of the city at night. 

I love living in the city. The neighborhood I live in is quiet for New York, but you can never escape the occasional siren going off, the low rumble of the subway passing by, the swarm of traffic coming and going. Don’t get me wrong, the suburbs are nice. It’s just that the city is constantly so full of life, there’s always something new to discover. My first week living here was the best week of my life. It was mid-August, and I had just been hired at the school I work at now. I was twenty-three, fresh out of the suburbs, just starting my life. When I finished moving into my apartment, an older black woman from down the hall came knocking on my door, saying she was the “Building Grandma”. Her name was Cinthya, and she was a nice lady from Alabama. She moved to New York after her husband retired in the ’90s, but she lived alone with her cat, Cookie. She quickly became my first friend, and we would meet every Sunday night for coffee. 

Cynthia claimed she was psychic. I’ve never been one to believe in stuff like that, but what she said was usually the truth in one way or another, so I began believing her. She always said she could read me like an open book, that she knew things about me before I even told her.

“You’ve led a life of troubles, child,” she once said, unprompted. “I can tell you’ve had your fair share of darkness, but you’ve got a beautiful soul, baby, and I can tell you gon’ do great things, so don’t you ever let your past hold you back.”

She died a few weeks later.

I really shouldn’t be bumming myself out like this right now, but I like to think about that piece of advice she left me. “Don’t let your past hold you back.” I’ve tried; I really have. But when you’re living your life to the best of your ability, when everything is going great and you’re practically batting .400 at life, having your past come back unexpectedly is like a sucker punch to the gut. It takes everything out of you, and you feel like you’ve lost everything you worked so hard to build. It takes you right back to the beginning. 

I’m pulled out of my daydream by two strong arms wrapping around my waist. Baz. The love of my life. The man who has now seen a glimpse of the worst part of my life, and is doing his best to make me feel comfortable. 

“Alright,  _ tesoro _ ?” he asks, his chin perched on my shoulder. I know that’s uncomfortable for him; I’m the shorter one of the two of us. I lean into the comfort of his body, the safety I feel in his arms. 

“I’m all good. Got lost in my head a bit.”

He hums in response. “Hmm, I bet. It’s getting kinda late. Bunce and your mom said people we’re just about to head out for the night.”

“M’kay.” I close my eyes, relishing in the warmth of his chest. He turns me around and leans me on the railing. He kisses me gently. It’s a soft kiss, the kind I’ve had a million times before and the kind I hope to have a million times again. He breaks the kiss and I nearly fall over, unconsciously chasing his lips.

“I have something for you,” he says as he turns towards the windowsill. 

“Baz, babe, you didn’t have to get me anything. Dinner and the party were more than enough,” I protest. He walks back towards me and puts a finger to my lips.

“Quiet, you. You’re my boyfriend, it’s your birthday, and I wanted to get you something nice. Also, I am a functioning adult, so I can do what I want.” He puts a small box in my hand. It’s a small, white, cardboard box, a purple ribbon wrapped around it and tied into a bow at the top. “Now, open this. I want to see your reaction.” I lean forward a bit and kiss him quickly. I gently pull off the ribbon then start to pull the cardboard tab. I open the box to reveal a small object wrapped in tissue paper. Baz takes the box out of my hand and places it on the windowsill. I unwrap the tissue paper to reveal a small,  [ crystal sunflower ](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/518lhdU5QcL._AC_SL1000_.jpg) . I let out a loud gasp, it almost sounds like a sob. 

It’s not exactly like the one my grandmother got me as a kid. This one is smaller, maybe three inches tall, and more delicate, as if it would shatter to a billion pieces if I held it with an ounce of strength. It’s light, and I feel like I’m about to drop it. My vision is blurring, and before I can stop it, there are tears flowing down my face. 

“Oh, love,  c’mere,” he says softly as he takes me into his arms. “ I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted to do something nice, I’m sorry.”

I take a deep breath, breathing in the scent of his cologne. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Baz, this is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given me. How did you know?” I look up at him to see a bit of a sheepish look on his face. 

“Um, don’t be mad at her or anything, but Penelope told me about what happened on your eleventh birthday. I’m sorry, I’m just realizing that was a huge invasion of privacy.” I could swoon. He feels bad over knowing something I would’ve told him soon anyways. I wrap my arms around him tight, still holding the crystal carefully in my hand. 

“Hey, don’t feel bad. I would’ve told you about all of that eventually. And don’t blame Penny either; she and you are exactly the same. You both need to know everything and share information. Lucky for you, I love that about you.” He laughs at that, and I find myself wishing I could take photos with my mind. 

“I’m glad you like the gift, darling,” he says leaning forward. He catches me in a breathtaking kiss again, his hand coming up and carding through my hair. It’s crazy comforting, the way he scratches my scalp.

A knock at the window behind Baz forces us to break apart. Baz shuts his eyes in a cringe as I look over his shoulder to see my mom waving from the window, signaling that she’s about to head home. I nod at her and put up my finger, silently asking her to give me a minute. 

I look back at Baz. “Thank you so much for this. For the sunflower, for dinner, for simply being here. I love you so much.”

He kisses my forehead. “Of course, love. I love you, too.I’ll let you say bye, okay? I’ll see you inside.” I nod before making my way towards the windowsill, the crystal sunflower still in my hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all wanna know what time it is when im uploading this? 248 in the morning haha im gonna go to sleep now hope you guys enjoyed the chapter
> 
> fun fact my google doc for this story has reached 69 pages lol i am a child
> 
> also happy easter :)
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of dialogue cuz i can only write conversations 
> 
> TW: homophobia

SIMON 

July has always been my favorite month. It was the first full month of summer, and I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. I’d go to the community garden and draw, to my Gran’s house, or I’d go to the bakery with my mom.

Those were my favorite days. She’d let me help out with the little things; mixing, using the cookie cutters, adding the egg wash. When I turned thirteen, she let me man the register, and when I turned fifteen, she hired me as a full-time employee for the summer months. I’d open the store with her and leave with her after closing. Mom always gave me the weekends off. She knew those were the days I’d hang out with Penny.

I also spent most of my childhood summers at the town rec center. It was my escape from everything at home. There were art sessions twice a week, so I used to go there. It was mainly for adults, but Gran volunteered at the rec center, so the ladies at the front desk knew me and let me sit in during the sessions, as long as I sat in the back and didn’t cause any trouble. I never caused trouble as a kid; I had too much of a deep rooted fear to do so. I’d draw and paint until my wrist went numb. The instructor noticed me once when I was seven. It had been a few sessions into my first summer there, and the group was doing still life sketches. I was drawing a dragon when my elbow knocked over my pencil cup, disrupting the near-silence in the room. I was paralized with fear as I watched the instructor walk towards me. I had broken the one rule I was given, and I was afraid that I would get in deep trouble. I was afraid he’d tell my dad. 

I didn’t want him to tell my dad. 

I could feel my lip starting to tremble a bit as he squatted next to my desk, coming down to just about eye-level with me. He smiled just as he said, “Hi, I’m Tony. What’s your name?”

“S-Simon,” I responded, my voice shaking.

“Simon, huh? You’re Ruthie’s grandson, right?” I simply nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You like art, kid?” I nodded again, less nervous. He turned and looked at my dragon sketch. “This is a cool dragon, Simon. How ‘bout you come sit at the front so I can see your progress.” I nodded and gathered up my drawing and my pencils from the floor, following Tony up to the front. We would chat every once in a while during the summers. In a way, he was kind of like my best friend. He and his wife moved to California when I was nine. He’d been hired as an art consultant, which he had told me was his dream job. I missed him a lot after he left. I guess Tony was the inspiration for me to become an art teacher.

Anyways, my first point was that July is my favorite month of the year. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, but having two full months away from having to write lesson plans and arguing with the school board about the curriculum and grading system is a godsend. (There’s no point in grading kids’ artwork; art is subjective. If it we’re up to me, I’d simply grade for completion, but noooo, school board wants me to grade on “effort” and “technique” and “proper use of the medium”. Bullshit.) Plus, this is the first time I’ve dated someone who doesn’t work summers either. Baz doesn’t need to work summers; his trust fund is big enough for him not to work a day in his life, but he prefers to leave that for emergencies and small (yet rather expensive) indulgences. His salary is also enough for him to live comfortably and pay bills and stuff over the summer. 

I still work over the summer. I work at an art gallery and host auctions, but the hours vary mainly in the evenings and I get good money from it, so my schedule is usually free. I love it. I get to spend most of my time with Baz and Penny.  
Right now, it’s Friday morning and I’ve just had breakfast at Baz’s. I had an auction last night that ended rather late, and the gallery is closer to Baz’s loft than it is my apartment (Baz lives on the richer side of town), so Baz insisted I spend the night with him instead of taking the subway back home.

Baz lives about twenty minutes from me on a good day. His loft is alot bigger than mine. It’s got three rooms and two bathrooms. His bedroom has a walk-in closet he keeps lined with various types of clothes; business suits, casual suits (i didn't even know those existed), his work clothes, his everyday clothes (which isn't all that different than his work clothes, if we’re being honest) and some gym attire. He cleared out a corner for me if I ever wanted to leave stuff over. I’ve done the same with a drawer and bathroom shelf. His room is barely decorated, just his bed with night stands on each side and matching lamps. There's also a mirror in the corner and a small dresser where he keeps some watches and other knick knacks. He’s got a reading chair with a table next to it by a large window. It’s all very modern.

His office is more decorated than his bedroom. He has a large wooden desk in front of a window, so when he’s sitting at it he faces the door. One of the walls is adorned with all of his diplomas and certificates, as well as a shelf with any award he’s won. The other wall is decked with a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that covers the entire wall. Every single shelf has a book on it, it baffles me that his collection keeps on growing, and that he even has the room to put them somewhere. 

I like his living room the most. It's an open concept; I can see the TV perfectly from the kitchen island. He’s got a grey L-shaped couch with a glass coffee table in front of it, and an electric fireplace with the TV on top of it; very minimalistic. In the corner, there’s a short shelf (it comes up to about my hips) filled with records, and a Victrola record player in a leather case. The window is my favorite; it takes up the entire wall and has glass double doors leading to a quaint balcony.

I like spending the night at Baz’s. His bed is comfier than mine (memory foam) and he has a bigger kitchen with two ovens, which is fun and convenient for when I make dinner there. But we don’t spend that much time there. Baz works closer to my apartment than his, so we spend a lot of time at mine. I don't like leaving Rosie alone for too long. Neither does Baz; he treats her like his own daughter. It’s adorable. He also says my apartment has a homier feel to it. His looks like it should be photographed for an interior design catalog. Mine looks like it was put together at a thrift shop (that’s because most of my furniture _is_ from a thrift shop, but that’s neither here nor there).

We’re both on the couch right now, Baz all the way at the end, wearing his glasses and reading something off his iPad that he has balanced on the armrest. Baz looks inflammably handsome with his glasses. I told him so and it made him blush. I’m laying down with my head on his thigh, scrolling through my phone while Baz runs his fingers through my hair. He made us crepes for breakfast (he even pronounces crepes correctly, the posh bastard) after I told him I’d never had one.

“You’re mother owns a _bakery_ , Snow,” he had said accusingly.

“Yeah, where she makes _baked goods_ , not fancy French _breakfasts_ ,” I snapped back. He simply rolled his eyes and got to work. They were delicious nonetheless.

I’m checking my email when I see a message from one of my students, James, from yesterday evening. I find it kind of odd; I’ve never gotten an email from a student over the summer. My class isn’t important enough for them to be even thinking about it, and if anyone is, the emails are from parents, not the students personally. I open the email to find a long paragraph written.

_Dear Mr. S,_

_It’s James, though I guess you can tell from the email address. I have something important to tell you about myself. You’ve always told us that colors aren’t just solid, that they’re a spectrum and a mixture of many shades. I figured people could also be like that. After struggling with it a lot, I realized that I am not a boy. I’m also not a girl. I’m non-binary. I guess you probably know what that means, but I feel like I should clarify that my pronouns are they/them. My name is still the same, too. James is fine but I’m also open to Jamie._

_I told my parents. They were really proud of me when I told them. My mom is actually helping me write this email. I guess I wanted to tell you before the school year started. You’re my favorite teacher and actually helped me come to terms with my identity. I’ve never met a queer adult before. My mom taught me the word “queer” after I told her you had a boyfriend. Anyways, I really just wanted to say thank you for helping me come to terms with who I am. I hope you have a great summer!_

_From,_

_Jamie Roswell_

“Holy shit, Baz, look at this,” I say as I sit up and sit up in a criss cross. “Y’know my student, James?”

He responds without looking up from his tablet. “The shy kid who spends lunch in your classroom?”

“Yeah, look at the email that was just sent to me,” I say as I hand him my phone. “They came out as non-binary and they felt like they should tell me. They said I helped them come to terms with their identity. My heart, Baz, my heart.” I clutch my hands over my chest and fall back on the couch like the dramatic idiot I am. 

He reads over the email. “You told your students about me?” he asks with his signature eyebrow raised.

“The kids are gossips; they figured me out ‘cuz I was in a good mood one day. Did you see what they wrote, though? They used my color analogy,” I say pointing to the line. Baz hands me back my phone once he finishes reading.

“That’s great, love, you really are an inspiration,” he says as he pulls me onto his lap. “I’m glad you’re helping kids become comfortable with themselves. The world needs more adults like you.” I put my arms around his neck as he leans up to kiss me. 

“They’re only eleven, y’know,” I start as I card my hands through his hair. “Can you imagine knowing such a crucial part of yourself at such a young age?” 

“I did,” he says calmly. It’s just dawned on me that Baz and I have never actually talked about what it was like coming out for us. I haven’t even told him about how my dad reacted. “I’ve known I was gay pretty much when I was able to start developing romantic feelings. My entire childhood, I paid attention to guys in movies. I was nine, I think, when I really figured out I was gay.” 

“You’ve never told me what coming out was like for you,” I say, my hands pressing on the nape of his neck. “Tell me?” 

“Mmm,” he hums, as if deciding whether or not he should. “Only if you tell me what it was like for you.”

I smile at him. “Deal.”

“Well,” he begins as he rubs circles into the small of my back. “Like I said, I was nine when I really realized I was gay, but I kind of ignored it until I got older. I figured, ‘Maybe I’m too young to really know.” Then came middle school and puberty, and I realized I could only get myself off when I thought about boys. The locker rooms were a _nightmare;_ I was horny all the time.” He lets out a deep laugh. “When I was thirteen, I developed a crush on this older guy on the soccer team, and it was horrible. I wasn’t planning on asking him out or anything; I probably would’ve gotten bullied or ridiculed if I did. 

“I kind of started beating myself up a bit, internally. I had all these feelings and emotions towards this boy and I had no one to talk about it with. I was bound to be a gay explosion. So during spring break that year, I was spending it at Fiona’s and I figured, ‘Why not tell her?’ Fiona and I have always had a strong relationship; she loves me like I’m her own son, and she’s always been really blunt and straightforward about everything with me. 

“One day, we were both sitting in her living room watching the Princess Diaries 2, and I was having a silent gay panic over seeing Chris Pine in a suit, so I just blurted it out. ‘I’m gay’. Two simple words. She just turned to me and, between munching on popcorn, said, ‘that’s great, kid. Now I don't have to worry about you knocking anyone up.’ Simple as that.” 

“Not gonna lie, but that’s exactly the kind of response I’d expect from your aunt,” I say, causing Baz to let out a huff of air from his nose, a small silent laugh. 

“Yeah, me too. So, I go back to school and then tell Dev and Niall. They were pretty chill about it. I don’t know if they ever expected it or anything- they’ve never told me- but they didn’t ridicule me or cut me off or treat me any differently. I did have Dev promise he wouldn’t say anything to his parents; if his dad found out, he’d definitely tell my dad, and I didn’t want that. It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I told my parents.

“Here’s the thing with my parents-- they’re not really emotional people. My mom, maybe. She was always the one who would comfort me if I had a nightmare and tell me stories as a kid. She’s always been a little more sentimental. But my dad has always been stone cold. He’s all calm expressions and grunt responses. Always ‘Basilton’ and curt nods and firm handshakes when I see him. Y’know, I don’t even remember the last time he hugged me.” This makes my heart ache. “My father always treats every conversation like a business transaction. He’s also a bit of a conservative. That’s the difference between my parents; their views don’t exactly align. I try to never bring up politics when I’m with my father; it usually ends in an argument.

“Anyways, I was fifteen, had just gotten into my first relationship, and was home for the summer. It was mid-July when I told them. We’d all been sitting in the sun room; my dad reading the paper, my mother writing in a journal, and me trying to read a book but clearly about to bounce off the walls. I wanted to tell them about my boyfriend; it was the first time I was ever in a relationship and I was really proud about it. 

“So I put my book down, turn towards my parents with my hands clasped together over my knee, trying to calm all my nervous energy. I go, ‘Mom, Father, I have something really important to tell you. I’m gay,’ and my father loses it. There were blank stares from both of them, utter silence until the tea cup in my father’s hand just shatters from the sheer amount of force he was holding it with. He stands up and starts lashing out, saying ‘no son of mine is going to be going around parading a boy on his arm’ and ‘think about your legacy, Basilton, your future. Are you trying to ruin the family name?’ I felt like he’d stabbed me right in the chest. I could feel my lips starting to quiver so I hid away in my room for the rest of the day. Our housemaid had to bring my dinner up to my room ‘cuz I refused to come down and eat with my parents. 

“My mom came up to my room that night. She told me she didn’t care about me being gay and that she was proud of me for telling her. I asked her if my dad hated me, and she immediately wrapped me in her arms, and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I cried and cried, and she kept running her hand through my hair and shushing me, assuring me that my dad couldn’t hate me, and that she’d make him come to his senses.” I can see tears starting to form, and one escapes and starts to slide down his cheek. I adjust my position on his lap so I can kiss it away. I wipe the rest away with my thumb.

“Thanks, love,” he continues, sporting a broken smile. “I fell asleep that night to my parents screaming at each other in my dad’s study. I couldn’t hear anything clearly; my bedroom is directly above the office and their voices were muffled by the floor between us and the pounding in my head. The next morning, I went down for breakfast and my father acted like nothing happened. Just asked, ‘Sleep well, Basilton?’ without even looking up from his coffee. 

“My father and I don’t talk about my sexuality. I know he knows about my relationships; my mom keeps him updated. He knows about you, but unlike my mom, he doesn’t ask about you when we talk on the phone. There are a lot of things better left unsaid when it comes to my father. But that’s pretty much it. Everyone I ever cared about knew, and it slowly became another part of me, not my whole identity.” He finishes with a shrug. I run my hand through his hair, cupping the side of his face when I’m done. He leans into my hand a bit, and I can feel rumble at the base of my palm as he hums in comfort. His eyes are dry now, there’s no sign of tears threatening to spill out.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, my thumb lightly caressing his cheek. 

He turns his head and presses a kiss on my palm. “Of course, but a deal’s a deal, Snow. You have to tell me yours now.”

I stand from my position on his lap to stretch my back a bit before sitting next to him on the couch again. I sit next to him again, about to pull my legs into a criss cross, but Baz grabs them and puts them on his lap before I get the chance. He turns to face me a little bit more.

“It’s not much of a big deal; no one’s gonna write a broadway play about it or anything. I was in high school-- sixteen years old, I think-- and I was dating my high school girlfriend at the time. There was this guy in my grade, and I really fucking hated him. He was tall, played football, top of the class, and he always managed to get on my nerves. I didn’t know why, but he was always on my mind. I would constantly catch him looking at me, sneering at me and making menacing faces. It wasn’t till I got to thinking about it, but Penny was actually the one that helped me figure out that all the hatred and aggression I felt towards him was actually a _massive_ crush. So like, I didn’t have to come out to Penny because she essentially made me come out to myself. But then I had to figure out if my crush on this guy made me strictly gay, even though I was still with my girlfriend-- her name’s Agatha, I don’t think I mentioned it-- and I really liked her. 

“We had been dating for about three years at that point, but our relationship was kind of coming to a stop. Like we weren’t _dating_ dating, y’know? We were kind of just friends who held hands sometimes. But I really liked being with Agatha, and I still found women very attractive. I’d be at the school football games, unable to decide if my heart rate was increasing over the cheerleaders in short skirts or the football players in tight pants. It was a very confusing time for me.” This makes Baz laugh. “Anyways, Agatha ended up breaking up with me at the beginning of junior year. She said she needed to figure out some stuff about herself. There were no hard feelings though. I was probably gonna break up with her; it didn’t feel right to string her along when I had a crush on someone else.”

“What about your parents?” he asks as he pushes his glasses onto the top of his head. A short hair by his widow’s peak pops out from under the bridge of his glasses, lazily falling over his forehead. I fight the urge to twirl it around with my finger.

“Relax, Pitch, I’m getting there. LIke, the weekend after Agatha broke up with me, my mom, Gran, and I were getting ice cream. It’s a thing we used to do; we liked to go out together as much as possible and get food. So we were getting ice cream at a small creamery on Main Street when mom asked me why Agatha didn’t come.

“Agatha used to come with us a lot. She and my mom got along together really well. Agatha would talk about wanting to move to california and my mom was the only adult who actually supported her decision. 

“So my mom asked and I figured there was no point in lying to her, so I just told her that we broke up. Gran asked me why. I knew one of the two were gonna ask me; they both ask a lot of questions. I was a little nervous to tell them at first; I’d never really known thier opinions on gay people or anything, so I didn’t know how they’d react. So I got really quiet and said, ‘Because I have a crush on a boy.’” I remember the day clearly. We had been at a round table outside the creamery and I started crying into my bowl of Bubble Gum ice cream when I said it. My mom immediately came to my side and wrapped me in her arms, saying that I didn’t have to cry and that it was totally okay if I had feelings for a boy. “My mom said she didn’t care about who I liked, but she did ask if I liked boys exclusively or if I was bisexual. Then Gran said that she had a fling with her college roommate while she was dating my grandfather.”

“Wait, your grandmother? Ruth Salisbury?” Baz asks in shock, his eyebrow raised in question.

“I _know,_ right? My mom and I were _gobsmacked_. Apparently she never told my grandfather about her either. This woman held on to that secret for over forty years.” We both start laughing. I love Baz’s laugh. He’s always super composed, but when it’s just the two of us, he lets himself go, and his laugh is pure bliss. 

I can tell there’s something bothering him when his laughter dies out. He’s rubbing his hand over my shin slowly, and I can tell there’s something on his mind by the way his upper lip is protruding. Baz runs his tongue over his top teeth when he’s lost in thought. I lean forward and take his hand in mine, pulling him back down to earth.

“What’s bothering you, babe?” I ask as I play with his fingers.

“It’s, just…” he says with a sigh. “I kind of want to know how your dad reacted. I mean, I know he doesn’t approve but…” I can feel the blood rushing out of my face. Suddenly, the summer after my freshman year of college flashes before my eyes. The fractured rib and bruised chest and black eye. The split lip I kept on bothering because I bite my lip when I’m anxious.

“Simon, you don’t have to talk about it. I’m sorry I brought it up,” Baz pleads as he brings me back to reality.

“No, it’s fine. Um,” I pause and take a deep breath. “Yeah, he didn’t exactly react as I would have hoped. I was nineteen, and it was the first time I’d seen him since he left eight years before. We never really kept in touch; I know my mom got child support from him, and I got a Christmas card every year with a fifty dollar check, but that was it. I wanted to see him. He’s my dad and I felt like he couldn’t hurt me since, y’know,  _ legally  _ I was an adult. So I went to spend the weekend with him in Boston, and I told him one day over lunch. He completely lost his shit. Like, I’m fairly certain there was steam coming out of his ears. He was  _ infuriated _ , and he started to beat me, calling me a fag and a poof and quite literally kicked me out of the house. I had to take the train home and ended up knocking on my mom’s door with a fractured rib, fractured wrist, bloody lip, and bruises everywhere. I think my mom genuinely thought I was dead.”

Baz is looking at me with wide eyes. His eyebrows have gone up so far on his forehead, they’re about half an inch from merging with his hairline. There’s pity spread across his face like paint on a canvas. I want to wipe it away. I don’t particularly like being pities, being treated like I’m made of eggshells. I give him a crooked smile to try to lighten the mood. 

He pushes my legs off his lap as he lunges forward, wrapping me in a strong embrace. Baz is surprisingly strong. I don’t know why; he doesn’t do any weightlifting or anything. I know when he goes to the gym, he spends a lot of time doing cardio. Maybe he does a lot of pushups or something. 

I feel him kiss my temple before he says, “I’m so sorry, love. I wish I could just dump your father into the middle of the ocean.”

“Ha, me too,” I say with a little laugh. I want to break the tension a bit. “Tell me about that boyfriend of yours, Baz?”

He pulls away from me and I can see his brows scrunched together. “The one from high school?” I nod. “Oh, well we dated for like a year, but then he broke up with me because he got this girl pregnant. Can you believe that? He cheated on me and I didn’t have to do anything to get him back. The relationship was fun while it lasted, though.”

“I’m sorry he cheated on you, love.”

“It’s whatever. Maybe if we had never broken up I never would’ve met you, and I am much happier with you than I ever was with him.” I smile at him and lean forward to kiss him. “Mm, now tell me about this crush you had.”

“Oh, um, okay. After Agatha broke up with me, I kept on sorting my feelings out for him. I used to always feel aggression towards him. I wanted to push him up against the lockers and punch him. Turns out, I wanted to punch him softly, with my mouth, on his mouth. He was in a few of my classes and we ended up working on a project together, so we became friends. I’m pretty sure he flirted with me a bit, so I built up the courage to kiss him. I did it at the Homecoming bonfire, like right in front of the pit. Turns out he felt the same way about me, and we dated for like a month. His family ended up moving to England, so we broke up ‘cuz neither of us were cut out for a long distance relationship.”

Baz shakes his head at me in disappointment. “I can’t believe you thought you hated your crush. Only you, Simon, really.”

I throw up my hands in defense. “I didn’t know any better! Everything confused me when I was in high school. It’s a miracle I even graduated!” He laughs before tackling me with a kiss. He pushes me onto my back before climbing over me, making me reach up to kiss him.

“I’m glad you figured out your sexuality, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do this,” he says as he kisses my lips again. “Or this.” a kiss on the mole on my cheek. “Or this.” One on my jaw. “Or this.” One on my neck. “Or even this.” he nips with his teeth at the corner where my neck and shoulder meet. I let out an embarrassing moan.

“Get up here, you glorious bastard.” I pull him up by his shirtsleeve, and he smiles that devilish smile before kissing me again, making me forget about anything and everything in the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bold of me to write about teens coming out to their family when i haven't even been able to come out to my own lol 
> 
> i wrote like a fat portion of this during an all-nighter and another portion of this while i was on hold with td bank so like if there's any mistakes or something that doesn't make sense lmk and I'll fix it
> 
> y'all i made a slowly account (that online penpal thing) so like feel free to write me my id is 2VP3NJ let me know if you're from here :)
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theydies and gentlethems, i have returned. sorry i kinda disappeared on this story for like 6 months, but online school had me going cross-eyed and it made me want to throw my computer at the wall, and then i worked 40 hours a week for like a month straight (im only 17 im not used to it) so like i was always tired. and then i started therapy and that's a whole other whirlwind. but the point is that i'm back and better than ever. enjoy the chapter i hope to start updating more often :)
> 
> also theres a time jump cuz at the end of the last chapter theyd been together like 5 months but in my head they act like theyve been together for like 2 years and I'm the god of this story so i wanted to balance that out. deal with it.

BAZ

Having been in a relationship with Simon Salisbury for a little over a year now, I never would’ve imagined that the other room in his apartment was an office. Wait, let me correct myself, an  _ art studio _ , as Snow puts it. 

“It’s the place where I create and store all my art Baz. I examine, critique, and grade art in there. Calling it an office makes it sound like work,” he told me when I first asked him what the room was. 

“It is work, Snow. It’s your  _ job.  _ You grade art  _ for work.  _ You are a teacher, and a teacher needs an office,” I argued back. 

“Way to take all the fun out of it, Baz,” he pouted at me after. 

Anyways, I would pass by the room on my way to the bathroom and always noticed it was full of art; different sized canvases, some blank, some full of Simon’s artwork. I noticed a pile of sketchbooks in a corner, and a shelf full of a variety of art supplies, but there was never any order to the room. Nothing seemed to have a place of its own. Everything was thrown about or leaned up against any random object or wall in the room. I also noticed different items of Simon’s clothing thrown about, but I never questioned it, because, each to their own. It was constantly in disarray, I always thought Simon simply used it as a storage room. 

It wasn’t until this week that Simon asked me if I wanted to help him organise it that I realized it  _ wasn’t  _ storage (hence our discussion over whether the room was an office or an art studio). When I came over with lunch, I wouldn’t have found Simon in the room sitting among piles of artwork, plastic storage bins, and jackets if it weren’t for his mop of curly hair. 

“Simon, love, what the hell are you doing?” I asked him as I leaned against the doorframe. Somewhere among the mess, Rosie pops up with a colorful knit hat propped up on her head and trots over to me, nudging my leg for attention. I lean down to pet her as Simon’s head perks up at me, my presence snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Oh, hey Baz. How did you get in?” He asks me, ignoring my previous question. There’s a dusty smudge on his right cheek. 

“The door was unlocked, Snow. What are you doing?” I ask as I make my way to him, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. There’s an old, worn file folder on his lap.

“I haven’t really organized this room since I moved in, and I want to make more space for future art,” he says as he closes the folder and looks up at me. “And maybe, we could get you a desk for when you spend the night. I know you like to do your grading later at night.” 

My heart warms. Simon is always looking out for me. The longer our relationship has gone on, the more he prioritizes me. He cleared out a drawer for me far earlier than I did for him, and he bought a shower caddy for me since I use more products than he does. Honestly, he’s so incredibly thoughtful, I don’t know why we haven’t moved in together. I think it’s because both of us are so emotionally attached to our apartments, I don’t know what we’d do. 

“That sounds amazing, love. Do you need help?” 

He looks around the room before responding. The room is rather messy, but you can tell it’s got a nice decoration. One wall is covered in mismatched shelves. Simon mentioned he liked to get his furniture from thrift stores and second-hand sellers. The shelves were littered with various kinds of art supplies, from an assortment of paintbrushes to small bins of different paints. There are at least six cups of colored pencils on one of the top shelves. Simon’s placed his drawing table directly in front of the window, facing outside. This room has the largest window in the entire apartment, not including the living room. The amount of natural light is perfect for art, in my opinion. The table is lined with various small plants that are all beautiful and vibrant. and there are pens, pencils, blending sticks, and various other supplies riddled over the top. In a far corner of the room is another desk, with different stacks of papers piled on it, most likely some of his students’ work. The biggest mess was the wall closest to the closet. There were opened storage bins and cardboard boxes stacked up against one of the sliding doors, as well as different paint canvases crowding around the boxes.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got some coats and stuff in the closet I was planning on donating. Could you take them out and put them in that black bag? If you find anything you like you can keep it.” He says as he points to the closet. I head there and notice even more paint canvases. I start to sort through them. I’ve never really been able to admire Simon’s art. He’s shown me some of his sketchbooks, and he even once convinced me to model for him, but it was all charcoal. I’ve only ever seen his pencil or charcoal work, if I really think about it. It’s a shame really, because his work with paint is beautiful, to say the least. 

I take out the first painting that’s leaning up against the wall. It’s rather large, maybe three feet by two feet. On the canvas is a dancer in the middle of a grand jete, wearing a nude leotard (or at least that”s what I’m telling myself- I don’t know how I feel about my boyfriend painting someone in nude)(not that it’s any of my business- I have no right to be mad at him over what he may have done in the past). It’s bright and colorful, with forceful strokes for the mint green and lavender purple background, but delicate strokes for the model. It seems light, carefree. It’s absolutely magnificent. I’d put it in a museum if I had any say (I might not have any say, but my Aunt Fiona probably could- she has a million connections). 

“Simon, this art is amazing. You painted this?” I ask, tilting the painting in his direction. He looks up at me before putting the folder down and standing up. He walks up to me and takes the painting in his hands. 

“Yeah, everything in there is my work,” he says as he starts carding through the rest of the paintings. I catch glimpses of different kinds of paintings- landscapes, portraits, realism, still art. Art isn’t my area of expertise, but I can tell Simon is well versed in different kinds of mediums as well. “I did majority of these in college. I used to sell them for some extra cash-- help lighten the load on my mom’s wallet. I used to do specific requests and commissions. People would ask if they could model for me, and I’d paint them or sketch them. Those usually cost a bit more. But I spent a lot of my time painting, and all the canvases would take up the room in my dorm, my roommate would get mad.” He chuckles at that. “I still remember exactly why I painted all of these.”

“Why’d you paint this one?” I ask. I can’t help it; my curiosity got the best of me. He looks down at the painting for a brief second then up at me with wide eyes. He laughs nervously while rubbing his hand at the back of his neck.

“This one, actually, was for a grade, which is why I still have it. It was for my Painting 1 class freshman year, and we had to use oil paint as our medium for our final. I had never really used oil paints; acrylic was always my go to. The model, Rebecca, lived down the hall from me, and I often came home to see her dancing in the halls. I think she majored in dance. I, uh, I had a crush on her, so I asked her to model for me and she agreed, but when I asked her out on a date after I handed in the project, she told me she was already in a relationship. We never spoke again. I didn’t even get to tell her I got an A+ on my final,” he finishes and looks at me sheepishly, that wonderful crimson blush creeping onto his cheeks. 

“That's really cute, Simon,” I say. He gives me half a smile, so I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him in for a brief kiss. He melts into my mouth, a little whine escaping him when I break the kiss. I inch my mouth up to his ear, pressing a kiss to his cheek before whispering, “You should paint me some time.” I hear him shudder a gasp, so I keep egging him on. “Maybe even in the nude.”

He pulls away from me, pupils blown in desire. “You’re so fucking hot,” he breathes before he slams his face into mine. We stay there, aggressively making out for what feels like a while, before I accidentally push Simon into the stack of storage bins. He presses a hand to my chest, pushing me back a bit. 

“Maybe,” he starts, breathlessly, “maybe we should finish organizing before we get carried away.”

“You’re ridiculous, Salisbury, but if that’s what you want,” I say with a shrug. I leave him blushing and go back to the closet I had been organizing. Simon goes to his desk and starts sorting through papers. I start to take all the coats out and shove them in a large black bag. As I go back, I notice a guitar leaning against the wall. I take it out. It’s a nice acoustic with a glossy finish. It’s a little dusty from being in storage, but it’s in one piece. There’s a pick under the strings on the neck. I turn towards Simon.

“Babe, whose guitar is this?” I ask as I show him the guitar. 

He looks at me, confused at first. “Oh, it’s mine. I thought that was still at my mom’s.”

He takes it from me. “ I didn’t know you played guitar,” I say as he starts to strum lightly. He takes a seat at the chair by his desk. There’s a pick tucked under the strings on the neck. He takes it out and holds it between his teeth as he tunes the guitar. He finishes tuning it and plays a quick scale. I watch as his fingers move quickly over the neck of the guitar. He’s biting his lower lip, deep in concentration. He then plays a quick chord progression before starting something more fast-paced. 

It takes me a moment to realize he’s playing a Spanish rhythm. His eyes close as his fingers pick up the pace. He’s not using the pick, and his fingers strum and pluck at the strings. The song is fast-paced and romantic. I don’t recognize it, so this must be something he’s either memorized or come up with on the stop. It’s mesmerizing, watching his fingers move up and down the neck of the guitar. He seems a million worlds away, as if he’s holding his breath to not disrupt the melody he has going. I can’t believe I didn’t know he could play the guitar, and much less in such an advanced way. He’s playing a Flamenco as if he’s played guitar since the moment he was born. There is so much passion in the way he’s playing, it’s like he’s stuck in a guitar induced trance. He speeds up, his fingers moving so fast against the strings, my eyes can barely speed up. He strums harder, ending on a strong and forceful note. 

He opens his eyes and lets out a breath I didn’t even know he was holding in. He looks at me, a blush creeping up on his face, slowly hunching over in the way he does when he’s feeling shy or embarrassed. “I, uh, I didn’t think I’d still be able to play that. It’s been a while since I’ve picked up a guitar.”

I go over to him and take his face in my hands. “Love. You played beautifully. Like, almost-as-good-as-me-on-the-violin beautifully. You sounded like a professional. Where did you learn to play like that?”

I let go of him and he looks down, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “My dad taught me, actually. He taught me the fingerings and chords and a few songs. I started when I was six, I think. He stopped teaching me as I got older. By the time he left, I wasn’t half bad. For an eleven-year-old, at least.” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “I kept learning and playing after he left. It helped me hold on to the one good memory I had of him. I also felt like he’d be proud to know that I was getting good at what he taught me. That this could make up for all the bad things I ever did as a kid.”

I run my hand through his curls, pushing them off his forehead. “That’s sweet, darling.”

He smiles. “My mom also really liked it when I played. I learned all of her favorite songs.”

I drag my finger over the head of the guitar. “Play something for me?”

He cocks his head at me. “I just did?”

“Something else. Play me your mom’s favorite song or something.” 

He twists his lips in thought before reaching for the guitar pick. “Okay, I know what to play.” 

He sits up straight and gets into a proper playing position. I sit down on the floor in front of him. He starts to strum, swaying side to side in tempo with the melody. I quickly recognize it as the intro to “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. Before I can even process it, Simon starts singing. 

_ I took my love, I took it down _

_ Climbed a mountain and I turned around _

_ And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills _

_ ' Til the landslide brought me down _

I didn’t know he could play the guitar, let alone  _ sing _ . And it’s not mediocre singing. Simon’s voice is clear and golden. It’s captivating, enough to put me in trance. I’m so caught up in Simon, I didn’t even notice when Rosie laid down next to me, equally hypnotized by Simon.

_ Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? _

_ Can the child within my heart rise above? _

_ Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides? _

_ Can I handle the seasons of my life? _

Simon catches me staring at him, dumbfounded. I have to remind myself to close my mouth. He gives me a quick smile as he continues singing. 

_ Mmm _

_ Well, I've been 'fraid of changin' _

_ 'Cause I've built my life around you _

_ But time makes you bolder _

_ Even children get older _

_ And I'm gettin' older, too _

His voice is rich and mellow. He seems caught up in the song. His fingers strum the guitar delicately, as if the instrument we’re made of feathers. His voice is rich and mellow, and I find myself falling deeper in love with this man. 

He plays through the guitar solo and finishes the song, slightly out of breath. He gives me a sheepish smile.

“Simon, since when can you  _ sing _ ?” I ask him, sort of not believing it, even though I just witnessed it. 

“Um, since forever, I guess? My mom is a fiend for Fleetwood Mac and seventies music, so I learned this ‘cause it’s her favorite song. I played it at my highschool’s student concert my junior year. Did you like it?”

I stand and take the guitar out of his hand. I place it next to the desk before straddling him on his chair and clasping my hands behind his neck. “Simon. Sweetie. Babe. Darling. Love of my life. The reason I wake up in the morning. You sing like an angel. How many other hidden talents are you not telling me about?”

He gives me another shy laugh, his cheeks turning that lovely crimson color again. “Um, I can move my ears. Also, I can recite the alphabet backwards. And I’ve had the first 100 digits of pi memorized since the seventh grade.”

I shake my head and lean in to kiss him. He hums onto my mouth. “You’re ridiculous, Snow.” I kiss him again, then make my way down to his neck and up to his ear. I whisper at him, seductively, “You should sing for me more often.”

He nudges my face a bit for a chaste kiss on the lips. “Y’know,” he starts, “we could form a band.”

I lean back with a groan. “Way to ruin the mood, you moron! I was about to ravage you in your office. You playing the guitar surprisingly turned me on.”

He laughs loudly. “Think about it, Baz! Me on the guitar and vocals. You on the violin. Oh, and Penny played the french horn in high school! And Shepard claims to be really good on the triangle! We would sell out stadiums, Baz!” 

I stand up from his lap. “You’re an idiot, Snow. I’m making us some lunch, now that we’re not having sex.” I make my way out of the room. 

“We would be international sensations!” He calls out from the room. 

I can’t believe this is the man I fell for. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope yall enjoyed this chapter. ive got some actual plot for the next few chapters so keep an eye out for that. hopefully i dont disappear or anything lmao catch you in the next one
> 
> [this](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/F0R8PG/gold-and-white-border-collie-wearing-a-colourful-hat-F0R8PG.jpg) is what i picture rosie looks like with the hat btw
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9NCvSakgR8) is the Spanish melody simon played
> 
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S-NJ8MTMFY8) is the cover of landslide i based simons singing off of 
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://junior-writes.tumblr.com/) im pretty active over there
> 
> let me know what you think :) kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before we begin, can we take a moment to appreciate the sheer speed in which i wrote this? holy fuck, it's only been three days since i last updated and i already have a new chapter out this is the fastest I've ever written before
> 
> buckle up my friends cuz its a one way ticket to angst town from here
> 
> TW// homophobia. malcolm's a real dick in this one

BAZ

Driving up my parents’ driveway makes me glad I never went to public school, as I’m sure I would’ve had to trek up and down this infinite road every day to reach the school bus. I’ve never understood why my parents chose to have a house so deeply secluded in upstate New York. You spend about five minutes driving through densely packed woods only to reach a grand gate. I don't mean to bash anyone living a luxurious lifestyle ( I mean,  _ I  _ live a luxurious lifestyle), but a gate feels a bit excessive. 

I pass the gate and park in front of the three-car garage. I take my overnight bag out of the trunk before I make my way to the front door. I could just walk in; I have a key. But I haven’t lived here in eleven years and it feels like an invasion of privacy. I press on the doorbell and hear the Westminster melody play through the house. After a minute, Vera opens one of the double doors. She looks at me with wide eyes, as if she’s seen a ghost. 

“Mr. Pitch, I wasn’t expecting you. Please, come in,” She says as she steps to the side and ushers me inside. 

“Please, Vera, you’ve known me since I was in diapers. Basil is just fine. How have you been? How’s your family.” I ask her. Vera has worked for my parents since my mom found out she was pregnant with me. She is technically the housekeeper and was my nanny until I left for boarding school, but my parents and I treat her like family. She took care of me as a child, and now that I no longer live here, she cooks for my parents and makes sure the house is in order. 

“Well, Basil, I have been just fine. As for my family, my niece is about to start college soon. She’s the oldest of my nieces and nephews. Oh!” she claps her hands together, “She’s actually about to start at NYU in the fall.”

“That’s great, I’ll keep an eye out for her. Maybe she’ll be in my class.”

“That would be lovely, Basil. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, will you be staying long? Your parents never told me you were coming, so I apologize for not having a chance to get your room in order,” she says calmly, her hands clasped in front of her. 

I find it odd that Vera wasn’t made aware I’d be here. The trip up here was planned last minute. My father called me yesterday, saying he had important things to discuss with me, and that it was imperative we do it in person and as soon as possible. Simon and I had planned to go to the beach, as a final trip for the end of the summer. I wanted him to come up with me, but he refused. 

“If your father said it was  _ imperative  _ you be there tomorrow, I wouldn’t want to disrupt any important family matters. Plus, I don’t think your father likes me very much, and authority makes me uncomfortable,” he said as I was packing my bag last night. 

“My father liking you should be the least of your worries, Simon. Besides, it being a supposed family matter shouldn’t matter. I plan on making you family someday anyways.” I hadn’t meant for that last sentence to come out. It made him choke on his coffee, so I had to say something to recover quickly. “Also, my father won’t like you unless you magically grow a set of boobs and a vagina, and if that were to happen,  _ I,  _ as a very gay man, wouldn’t like you, so.” He laughed at that. 

I turn to Vera. “I’ll just be spending the night. Simon and I have plans for Monday afternoon. Are my parents busy?”

“They’re just about to sit down for dinner. Let me set another place at the table and then I’ll take your bag to your room.”

“I’ll take the bag Vera, thank you. I’ll be down for dinner in a bit.” She smiles at me and nods, making her way back to the dining room. I make my way through the house and towards my room. The house was built in the year 1900, and it’s all mahogany wood and high ceilings. I’m pretty sure it was built for British nobility, which is how my family got their hands on it. There’s a large library, which is my mother’s pride and joy. She has a vast collection of different kinds of books. She has first editions of every book in the literary canon. There are enough history books to explain the history of the entire world. There are manuscripts, books on language, autobiographies, novels, you name it. I’m fairly certain she has Shakespeare’s entire published collection. She takes pride in her vast collection. When I was a kid, my main goal was to read everything in the library. I’ve yet to succeed. 

My room is the same as when I left it last. I was never able to decorate much; almost everything in my parents' house is in one way or another a historical artifact. I never got to choose any furniture or paint the walls. The walls are covered in a deep red and gold damask wallpaper. Everything here is made of walnut wood; the dresser, the desk, the bookshelves, the bed, even the mantle over the fireplace. I have been able to add personal touches over the years; soccer trophies, literature, folders of violin sheet music, calendars. I’m still not allowed to pin anything on the walls. 

I set my bag on my bed and make my way back to the dining room. I find my mom there, refilling her glass of water. My father is sitting next to her at the round table, plate still full of uneaten food, a newspaper in hand. My mother looks up at me and a smile grows on her face. 

“Basil! Dear, what a surprise, I didn’t know you were here,” she says as she stands to make her way to me. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and proceeds to hug me. I’ll never get tired of hugs from my mom. I’m a good six inches taller than her, but every time she holds me in her arms, I feel like a little kid again. It’s a comfort I’ve come to miss as I got older.

“Father called me yesterday, said there is something important that needs to be discussed with me,” I tell her once she pulls away. 

“There isn’t anything pertinent that I’m aware of. Come, sit, Basil, we’re just about to eat,” she says, leading me towards the table. I take a seat sitting directly in front of my father, giving him a curt nod in greeting. He responds the same way.

Vera comes and sets a bowl of soup in front of me. I thank her and unfold my napkin and place it on my lap. My mother takes a spoonful before addressing me again. 

“Tell me, dear, how have you been, how is Simon?” She always asks me about him when we talk. Simon and my parents met a couple of months ago when I brought him up to spend New Years here after we spent Christmas with his mother and grandmother. Simon and my mom hit it off immediately. They bonded over Simon’s work, as they are both educators and my mother has a deep fascination for art. Also, Simon brought a large batch of sour cherry scones he stressed baked before we came. Scones happen to be my mother’s favorite pastries, and Simon ended up leaving her his recipe just in case she wanted to make them again. 

My father, on the other hand, is a different story. He showed obvious distaste for Simon from the moment he walked in. Father didn’t even bother to take Simon’s hand when he offered it. Then Simon, the angel he is, declined the drink Father offered him, and I saw the grimace on my father’s face when Simon said he’d stick to water. I wanted to say something, to explain why Simon doesn’t drink, but it’s not my business to disclose, and I didn’t want to make Simon uncomfortable by bringing up his past. 

There are many things Father doesn’t appreciate about Simon. First off, he’s a  _ he.  _ There’s no further explanation necessary. Secondly, Father doesn’t think that being an elementary school art teacher is a respectable profession for a man. He also doesn’t think I should be dating someone of Simon’s social class and upbringing. My mother and I could tell Simon was uncomfortable around my father when he was here, so she kept him entertained the most so he would feel more welcome.

I wipe off my mouth before responding. “Simon is doing great. He finished planning his curriculum for the year. He was also granted a larger budget at his school, so he’s planning on using that on newer supplies for the kids. He’s really excited about that.” I can hear my father scoff, but I choose to ignore it. 

“And you, Basil, how is your work going?” she asks me.

“It’s great. I’m considering going back to school, getting my Ph.D.”

My mother’s face lights up. “That’s great, dear! Have you-”

“You want to get your doctorate? In literature?” My father cuts her off. 

“Yes, that way I’m more qualified to teach, and I would get paid higher. And I’m near tenure,” I say, I furrow my brow at him. I already know where this conversation is going. 

“Malcolm, there is nothing wrong with Basilton getting his doctorate. I think it’s an amazing idea. You can never stop learning, dear, furthering your education is important,” my mother defends. 

My father puts his newspaper down. “I wanted to wait to have this conversation until after dinner, but now that the topic has been brought up, I have no choice.”

“What topic, Father?” I ask, putting my spoon down and crossing my arms over my chest.

“Basilton, you cannot go on like this. You’re almost thirty, son, you need to get your professional career in line. You need to start maturing and behaving like an adult,” he says, folding his hands together and placing them on the table. 

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I have a career, Father. What do you think I spend my time doing-- reading picture books to preschoolers? I fast-tracked my college education, managed to get my Bachelor’s and my Master’s in four years, became the youngest professor at NYU since the '80s, and you think I don’t have a profession?”

He sighs. “Teaching is no profession for a respectable man like you, Basilton. It’s no career for a Grimm. Take a look at your cousin, Devon. He’s working alongside his father and me at Grimm Industries. Now  _ that  _ is the right job for a Grimm.”

“I don’t want to be an accountant like Dev. I don’t want to work in  _ agriculture  _ or  _ finance _ . I love my job, and I’m good at it. It’s been so long since you last brought this up. Why now? What is so important that you have to bash my career choices  _ again _ ?” I feel myself getting flustered. 

“I just think you need to settle down into something more stable. I had a plan for you, Basil. You should be married by now, soon to be having children, someone to inherit the Grimm business,” he says calmly, trying to maintain his emotionless demeanor. 

My mother clears her throat. “Malcolm, this is unnecessary. Basil is clearly comfortable in his career. He’s made good choices in his life.”

“Teaching is a perfectly stable job, Father. I make a grand salary. And as for children, are you out of your  _ fucking mind _ ? Is that how you thought of me when I was a baby-- just someone to pass on your inheritance? What kind of Victorian bullshit is that?” 

“It’s not too late for me to set you up with someone, Basilton. I know plenty of well-respected women who’d-”

I cut him off, my hand slamming the table. “Of  _ fucking  _ course, that’s what this is about! Grow up, Father! When will you get it into your pea-sized brain that I’m as gay as the day is long?!”

He stands from his chair, hands slamming on the table as well. My mother flinches. “You cannot continue living this lifestyle, Basilton! You are a grown man, you cannot continue parading around with a man thinking it’s acceptable!”

My mother puts a hand on his arm, trying to calm him down. “Malcolm, please-”

“No, Natasha. I’ve held out this long, but he cannot think that settling down with some low-life queer from Long Island is the right path for his future.”

I’ve had it at this point. “You’re bringing Simon into this, really?! Why can’t you see that for the first time in my  _ entire life,  _ I’m actually happy with where I am? Simon isn’t some ‘low-life queer’. He’s my boyfriend.” My father scoffs at that. “Yes, Father, my  _ boyfriend.  _ Who I one day-- maybe even soon!-- plan on making  _ your  _ son-in-law. So deal with it.”

“ _ Absolutely not _ , Basilton! No son of mine will be marrying a man!”

“Well boo-hoo to you, Father, but I don’t give a fuck about your opinions! You’ve never approved of me in any way, you’ve never supported me. Not with my sexuality, not with my studies or hobbies or profession, so explain to me why I should care about your opinion on who I marry?”

He slams a fist onto the table, making the plates rattle. “I am your father, you will treat me with respect!”   


I wag my finger at him. “Why should I respect you when you’ve never respected me? You know what, don’t even answer that. Fuck you and your fucked up morals. I am my own person and I don’t need daddy’s permission to do anything anymore. I’m happy with my life, with my boyfriend. The only thing I regret is thinking that my father would want to see me and not berate me for who I am as a person.” I slide my chair out from behind me and turn to my mother. “Mom, I’m sorry for causing such a commotion at the dinner table. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room. I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.” I leave the room on that note, apologizing to Vera for any disturbance on my way out. I can already hear my mother scolding my father as I make my way down the hall.

Once I get to my room, I shut the door behind me and lean on it, releasing a breath I didn't realize I was holding in. I run a hand over my face and through my hair. There’s only one person who could cheer me up right now. 

I go to my bag and take out my laptop. I take a seat at my desk and pull up Skype and click on Simon’s contact. He answers relatively quickly, his golden smile on my screen making me feel better. 

“Baz! How are you?” his voice blares over my computer speakers.

I give him a tired smile. “Hi, love, how was your day?”

“It was good. I took Rosie to the park and played frisbee. I just got home from a run. I was about to pull up a movie. How about you?”

“My day was… eventful to say the least. I miss you.”

I watch as his eyebrows furrow in concern. “I miss you, too. Is everything okay? You look tired.” 

“It’s, well, no, not really. It’s my father.”

“D’you wanna talk about it?” He asks. I tell him everything about what just happened at dinner. 

“I’m so sorry that happened, love. Your father’s a prick. Do you want me to fight him for you? ‘Cause I will, and I’m eighty percent sure I’ll win,” he says, and it makes me laugh. 

“You don’t have to fight him, Snow,” I say with a sigh.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m proud of you for standing up to him. It takes guts.”

“Thank you. See, this is why I love you. You always make me feel better.”

He smiles at me. “Well, I’m glad I could be of assistance. Are you coming back, then?”

I rub my hand over my face again. “I’ll be driving back in the morning. I’m tired from the drive here and I haven’t eaten since the early lunch you made.”   


“Aw, babe, I’m sorry your dinner was spoiled. I snuck some chocolate croissants into your bag before you left. They’re in the small pocket.”

“You are literally my favorite person.”

He laughs. “And you are mine. I’ll let you go then. Get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you. Kiss Rosie goodnight for me.”  
“Will do. I love you, too.” He blows a kiss at the screen before hanging up. I close my laptop and start getting myself ready for bed. 

***

I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand. I refuse to open my eyes. It took me forever to fall asleep (I’m used to falling asleep with Simon in my arms, sue me), and I don’t want slumber to let go of the grasp it has on me. I slap my hand over my phone. I figure it's the alarm I set. I can spare five minutes for some extra sleep. My phone finally stops buzzing, so I curl myself further into the bed. Not even thirty seconds later, the damn thing starts to vibrate again. I open my eyes. My first thought is,  _ It’s too dark for my alarm to be going off _ . I set it for seven-thirty. 

I sit up and grab my phone. It reads 12:38. I’ve only been asleep for two hours. Penelope Bunce’s name is on the screen. I swipe and answer. 

“Bunce, I swear to god, you best be losing a limb for you to be calling me in the middle of the night,” I grumble into the phone. My voice is raspy with sleep.

“Are you with Simon?” her voice blares into my ear.

“What? No, I’m at my parents, why?” I hear her mumble something like  _ fuck.  _ I can suddenly feel my heart pounding in my chest. “Penelope, is there something wrong with Simon?” 

“Shit. Baz, Simon’s dad just died. I’m in Omaha with Shepard, and his mom and grandma are in Atlantic City at a baker’s convention. And if you’re in Upstate New York--”

“That means Simon is dealing with this on his own.  _ Fuck. _ ” I cut her off. I’m ripping the covers off of me, turning my bedside lamp on and getting out of bed. 

Penny continues over the phone. “I thought that if you were with him, he at least wouldn’t be dealing with this alone. But he’s not answering my calls. And his mom told me that he hung up on her after she explained everything, and he’s not answering her calls.  _ Christ,  _ I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s going though. He’s all alone,” She cries. I’ve changed out of my pajamas and put on my sweater. Penny is still sobbing over the line.

“Okay, Penny, listen. I’m just about to leave, so I should be with him in about two and a half hours,” (the drive is normally a little over three hours, but I’ll be damned if I leave Simon alone for that long. I’m willing to break multiple traffic laws) “I’m gonna call him, but you keep on calling him, too. He’s bound to answer eventually.”

Penny sniffles. “I- yeah, okay.”

“And, Penelope. Try to calm down, okay? Drink some water, take some deep breaths. Simon is going to need us at our fullest.”

“Okay, yeah, I’ll try. And Basil, please keep me updated?”

“You, too, Bunce. I’ll let you know when I get there.” With that, I hang up. I grab my bag and rush down the steps, quietly still, as to not wake anyone up. When I get to the sideboard by the front door, I take a notepad out from the top drawer and write a quick note.

_ Mother, an emergency came up at home. Had to leave around midnight. I’ll call when everything is settled. -Basil _

I leave it on the table and make my way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hold on tight my friends cuz its only gonna get worse from here. sorry not sorry
> 
> the next few chapters are gonna get a bit dark, just a heads up
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://junior-writes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright kids, here we go again. 
> 
> i feel like i should include a tw but i don't know what it would be but y'all have gotten this far into the story. its not anything worse than the previous things ive written for this 
> 
> enjoy!

BAZ

I’m the only one on the interstate. I’m pushing my Jag to its limit, going almost 110 miles an hour. One hand is holding onto my phone, repeatedly dialing Simon’s number. The picture of him asleep is shining onto my face as the phone rings. I’ve called him twelve times now, no answer. I’m holding my phone so tight I’m surprised I haven’t crushed it. My other hand is on the steering wheel, my knuckles gone white from holding on. My nails leave scratches in the leather of the wheel. 

I can feel tears stinging my eyes.  _ I will not cry.  _ I keep one goal in mind: get to Simon. Hold him in my arms. Help him through this. 

I have no idea what he’s going through. Is he glad his father died? He was an ass, the cause of all of Simon’s problems. I never met him, and honestly, I’m glad I never did. I probably would’ve socked him the moment he walked through the door. But Simon still respected his father. Simon knew that his father disapproved of everything about him, but I think there was still a little part of him, maybe in some distant, dusty corner of his heart, that still loved his father. 

I try to put myself in his shoes. How would I feel if my father died? He’s a shitty father, that’s for sure. But he wasn’t always shitty, was he? He definitely loved me (I don’t know what I can say about now, in light of recent events). He taught me to play tennis and taught me to drive. He took me to get my first suit properly tailored. He stood up and applauded after my graduation speech. Sure, he’s a homophobic elitist asshole, but he’s still my father, and I’d definitely be sad to see him part. 

But Simon is different. Simon is much more caring than I am. He’s much more attached. He’s sunny and warm where I am distant and cold. Christ, he’s probably worse off than I think. 

I dial his number again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail. “Fuck!” I yell as I throw my phone onto the dashboard. It had been ringing and then going to voicemail for the last half hour. His phone probably ran out of battery. Or he simply doesn’t want to talk to me. 

I grip the steering wheel even tighter and blow my way through the highway. I don’t actually hit traffic until I reach Manhattan. It’s just past three in the morning, yet you can never escape the hustle and bustle of the city. But a little traffic has never stopped me before, and it’s sure as hell not stopping me now. I switch lanes aggressively, driving on shoulders and cutting people off. There’s no fucking way I’m letting New York City traffic be the thing keeping me from Simon Salisbury. 

I speed past red lights. I know this sounds entitled, but I can pay off the traffic ticket. Some douche in a beat-up taxi tries to cut me off, but I blare my horn at him until he essentially has no choice but to put his car in reverse and go back in his lane. I’m stuck in standstill, bumper-to-bumper traffic as I make my way down Third Avenue, and I’m seriously considering leaving my car here and sprinting to Simon’s apartment (I definitely could-- I’m not that far and I have the stamina for it). 

Once I finally make it to Simon’s block, I park my car in the nearest empty space. It’s probably blocking a fire hydrant, but I don’t have the decency to care right now. I look up at Simon’s building. There’s a faint glow coming from Simon’s windows. I run and barge through the entrance door and make my way up the stairs two steps at a time. I’m slightly out of breath when I reach Simon’s door. I knock on it hard. I’m sure I’ve probably woken up some of his neighbors. There’s no response. 

“Fucking Christ, Simon. I’m coming in,” I grunt as I barge through the door. Surprisingly, it’s unlocked. The old lamp in the corner (I didn’t even know that worked) is casting a soft golden light throughout the room. I turn around and find Simon hunched over at his dining table. With an empty glass. And a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label whiskey right in front of him. 

_ Fuck. _ I take a good look at him. He looks dejected,  _ haunted. _ There are dark circles under his eyes, and they’re red-rimmed. His hair is a complete mess, likely from him ravaging it with his fingers. There are dried tear tracks down his cheeks. 

“ _ Simon, _ ” I say with a sigh as I rush towards him. He doesn’t react. He doesn’t move or flinch or even look up at me. His eyes look glazed over and I’m sure he’s on the brink or in the middle of a panic attack. His mind is somewhere else. “Simon, are you with me?” Silence. “Love, I’m going to touch you, okay?” He blinks, then swallows and licks his lips. I lightly place my hand on his back. He doesn’t flinch, which I take as a good sign.

“My dad-” He starts but cuts himself off. His voice is low and raspy. He shuts his eyes and gulps, his lips pressed together, quivering. “My dad sent me this bottle for my twenty-first birthday. He, uh, he never knew I didn’t drink. I never told him.” I remain quiet, silently urging him to continue. I glance at the bottle. It’s been opened, and there’s about an ounce or two missing. 

_ Oh, Simon _ . 

Simon continues, without even looking up at me or breaking his gaze from the bottle. “I’ve never drank. You know that. I don’t know why I kept it. I know it’s fancy whiskey; I googled it. I should’ve sold it. It’s worth over a hundred and fifty bucks.”

He runs a finger over the rim of the glass. “I poured myself one. I don’t really know why. My brain kind of shut down. I blacked out when my mom called me. The drink snapped me out of it. It burnt so bad, Baz.” His voice is starting to waver. “It felt like I was drinking gasoline or lighter fluid. Christ, it was like someone was pouring hot wax down my throat. I spit it right out, I couldn’t even handle it. I’m so  _ weak _ , Baz, just like he always said.” He breaks down into sobs, covering his face with his hands. I take him into my arms, turning him until he leans on my shoulder. His breath is short between sobs, and I can feel him trembling in my arms. 

“You’re not weak, love. You’re anything but. You’re the strongest, bravest, more resilient person I know,” I say as I rub up and down his back. 

He looks up at me. His face is red and puffy and riddled with anguish.“I’m weak, Baz. I can’t take a punch, I can’t throw one. I’ve never been able to defend myself around him. You’ve seen it, Baz. I break down at the sound of his voice. Everything he’s ever said about me is true. I’m pathetic, a coward.” His sobs get stronger. I hug him and lead him towards his couch. I sit him down and take the seat next to him. I put my arm around his shoulders and he leans into me again. 

“Simon, believe me, you are not weak. Anyone would react the way you do. And it’s not your fault. Forgive me for speaking about your father like this, but he was an asshole. A complete and utter disgrace to the world. He never treated you right, never treated your mom right. But he was still your father, and you respected him. It’s completely understandable as to why you never stood up to him.” I run my hand through his matted curls. He keeps on sobbing, and I can feel the tears seeping through my sweater. I continue to whisper sweet nothings, assuring him that he  _ isn’t  _ weak and pathetic. Slowly and surely, his breathing becomes more steady. 

He lifts his head up and looks at me again. I wipe the tears from under his eyes with my thumb. They’re still coming out pretty steady. He takes a stuttering breath before saying, “He had liver cancer, y’know? They found it so late they couldn’t even treat it. I didnt even know he had cancer. What kind of a son doesn’t know their father has cancer?”

I place a light kiss on his temple. “Love, you can’t blame yourself for that. It’s not like you were in constant communication. I’m sure if he wanted you to know, he would’ve told you himself.”

He sniffles and wipes his face with his hand. “Still, I should’ve known. I should have tried to communicate with him. I should have at least kept myself updated on my father. But instead, I cut him off, and I never got to say my final goodbye.”

I don’t know what to say. I run my hands through his hair, trying to calm him down. He continues, “I just wish he would’ve told me. I would’ve visited him, to try to make amends. I would’ve liked to know if he still loved me. Or at least didn’t hate me entirely. “

I sigh. “Simon, I don’t think you should worry about that. I’m sure if your father wanted to make amends, he would’ve reached out to you. And I don’t think he hated you, love. You’re impossible to hate. You’re such a bright fucking ray of sunshine. You light up every single room you walk into. Your smile is comparable to Greek gods. You always put others' needs before your own. No one could possibly hate you. I’m sure your father probably regretted the way he treated you.”

He nods. “I guess.”

I lift his chin up towards me and place a light kiss on his nose. “It’s late, love. How about we get you to bed, and we’ll deal with the rest tomorrow. We can talk about it more when you’re in a better headspace.”

He nods. I help him stand from the couch and lead him to his bedroom. I sit him down on the mattress and help him change into pajamas. He still looks a little dazed. I guide him to lay down under his covers. He watches me with glassy eyes as I change and climb into bed with him. He falls asleep in my arms, and I don’t fall asleep until his stuttering breaths smooth out entirely.

***

SIMON

I wake up to my phone ringing. My head feels heavy and droopy. I push myself onto my elbow while rubbing my eyes. They’re all dry and crusty, most likely from crying. My throat feels dry as well. 

I pick up my phone. It’s an unknown number. From a completely different area code than the city. I answer. “Hello?” my voice is raspy from sleep.

“Hi, is this Simon Salisbury?” The voice of a man comes from the other end of the phone. He sounds too cheery. I feel like hanging up. 

“Yes, this is he. Who is this?”

“Hi, Simon. My name’s Frederick Dumaine. I’m calling on behalf of your father, David Harris's estate. I have been put in charge of his final will and testament.”

I take a deep breath. “Oh, um, okay.”   


“Before I begin, Mr. Salisbury, I would just like to say that I’m very sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man.” His words hit me like a sucker punch in the gut. I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate, so I try to count my breaths like my therapist taught me. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Repeat. 

Mr. Dumaine continues, “There are a few things for you in your father’s will. I’d like to meet with you in person so we could discuss everything. I assume you’ll be attending your father’s funeral and service, correct?”

I sit up in bed. The covers slide off me as I rub my face. I fight the urge to say  _ he’s not my father  _ and  _ he wasn’t a great man. _ This all feels like too much and I really just want to go back to sleep. “I, um, I didn’t know there was a funeral or anything. I only found out he died last night.”

“Oh, well, yes, Mr. Salisbury, he did just pass last night, but he left his funeral expenses covered. I assume your father knew his illness was terminal, and he didn’t want to leave the burden on you.”  _ I wouldn’t have paid for his funeral anyways,  _ I want to say. “Regardless, your father expressed that he wanted you to speak at his funeral. I thought you had already been informed of the funeral plans. Anyways, I can send you the details.”

He’s speaking so fast I can barely comprehend. “Uh, yeah, okay then.”

“Well, then, Mr. Salisbury, it was a pleasure to speak with you, and I look forward to meeting you in person.” The line goes silent afterward. I put my phone on my nightstand and make my way out of bed.

I feel exhausted as I head towards the living room. My father wants  _ me  _ to speak at his funeral? I can’t even begin to understand why. We never spoke. I haven’t heard from him since the time he called me on my birthday over a year ago. And any time we did speak, it was him expressing his disappointment in me as a person. There isn’t one good thing I could say about my father. 

Baz is sitting on my couch with Rosie laying by his feet when I get to the living room. He has his hair up in a messy bun and his glasses on as he stares at his phone. I completely forgot he was here. He had been at his parents’ house, had a particularly bad time there, yet he made his way here just for me. I love him so much. 

He sees me walk in and gives me a small smile. “Morning, love,” he starts. “How are you feeling?”  
I sit next to him on the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest and curling into him. Baz is always cold, but I take in whatever warmth he can offer me. He puts an arm around me and pulls me in closer to him. He places a light kiss on my temple and begins to run his long, nimble fingers through my hair. 

“Some guy called me. Said he was calling on behalf of my dad’s estate,” I tell him. 

“What did he say?”

I take a deep breath. “He told me that my dad left some things for me in his will. Said he wanted to meet me in person so we could discuss in more detail.”

“Really?” 

I take Baz’s other hand and start playing with his fingers. I nod into his chest. We sit there, in silence, for a few minutes. I clear my throat before saying, “He also told me that my dad wanted me to speak at his funeral.”

I can feel Baz tense under me. “He what?”

“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s some sick and twisted way to torture me from the beyond or something, but that’s what the guy said over the phone. He assumed I already knew about the funeral service and everything. Said that my father left everything paid for so the burden of the funeral wouldn’t fall on me. The guy probably thought my father and I were like best friends or something.” 

Baz lifts my chin up, making my eyes meet his. His beautiful, mysterious, deep-water grey eyes. “You don’t have to do it, love, you know that? You don’t have to speak at his funeral or even meet with the guy about his will. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I nod. “I know. But it seems like an asshole move to not fulfill a dead man’s last dying wish. Maybe I’ll get some closure speaking at his funeral or something. I don’t know.”  
“You’re too good, Snow. You can’t even deny him his last dying wish, even though he was a total prick to you.”

“It’s my hero complex,” I say with a chuckle. He laughs and kisses me on the lips, and it’s  _ oh, so good _ .

We break I lay my head on his chest again, lining up my ear to where I can hear his heartbeat. “Will you come with me, to the funeral? It’s in Boston.”

“Of course, love. I’d go to the moon and back with you,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally some simon pov. havent written in simon's pov in a while.
> 
> to boston we go! sorry not sorry for the little bit of angst (is it angst? idk) and emotional turmoil but i hope you guys liked the chapter 
> 
> i want to start working on the next chapter asap so you guys don’t have to wait too long, but i have midterms in two weeks so i gotta study for those. can’t promise anything but hopefully it doesn’t take me too long 
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://junior-writes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, i'm back. sorry this took so long, life got in the way
> 
> anyways, funeral stuff
> 
> enjoy the chapter!

SIMON

Baz makes me call my mom while he makes us breakfast. I’m holding the phone to my ear as Baz comes up to me and puts a cup of coffee in front of me. It’s in the mug he got me that says “Not Paint Water”. He got it for me after, well, I accidentally drank paint water. It was my mistake for putting my coffee mug next to my paintbrush mug, and also that they were identical mugs. He places a light kiss on my head before walking away. 

The phone rings twice before my mom picks up. “Simon?” I hear my mom’s voice through the receiver. It’s immediately calming to hear her voice. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was still holding in. 

“Hi, Mom,” I reply. I run a finger over the rim of my mug. I close my eyes and try to pretend she’s here, holding me in her arms and running her hand through my hair the way she would when I was a kid and had nightmares. 

“My rosebud boy, how are you? How are you holding up?” Her voice is soft, calming. 

I shrug, even though I know she can’t see me. “I mean, I’m fine. All things considered. Kind of spaced out last night after you called me.”

“I’m so sorry I can’t be with you right now, dear. I tried to leave, but they need me to give my speech.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Your speech is important. You’ve wanted this for a while now. Don’t worry about me,” I assure her.

“Are you alone? I spoke with Penelope, but she never got back to me,” she says, and I can hear the concern in her voice.

I look up to where Baz is standing at the kitchen counter, wearing his fancy pyjama pants and one of my hoodies, because he always runs cold yet forgets to bring his own sweatshirts. “No, I’m with Baz. He came from his parents’ house after Penny called him.”

I can hear a quiet sigh of relief. “That Basil is a fine young man, Simon. You’ve made a good choice with him.”

I can feel myself blush at the comment. “Yeah, he is.” I feel weird gushing about my boyfriend with my mom, so I quickly change the subject to something more pertinent. “Um, Mom, some guy from Dad’s estate called. He said that Dad left me some stuff in his will, and that he wants me to speak at his funeral.”

I hear her scoff. “I  _ knew  _ it. I was worried he’d pull something like this. Only Davy would be blind to the way he treats people, really! Are you going to do it?”

“What , speak at his funeral? I mean, I guess. I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if that’s the last thing he wanted from me,” I say with a sigh. 

“You don’t have to, Simon. In fact, I don’t really think you should bother at all,” she says over the receiver, her voice lined with disgust towards my father. 

“It’s fine, Mom. If anything, I’ll leave if I feel uncomfortable. Besides, I’m kind of curious to know what he left me in his will, especially considering we haven’t really spoken these past few years.” It’s true. I didn’t think my dad would want to leave me anything; last I thought, he hated me. I figured since he never accepted me when I came out or when I told him I wanted to move to the city and teach art, I figured he never wanted anything to do with me, much less give me something. 

“Alright then dear, if that’s what you want. Would you like me to go with you? My speech is tonight, I could sneak out and be there by lunch tomorrow,” my mom offers over the phone. 

“It’s fine, Mom. I’m a grown man; I can fight my own battles. Plus, I know you never liked any of dad’s family, you don’t have to make yourself uncomfortable for my sake.”

“I just don’t want you to be alone, rosebud,” She sighs.

“I won’t be. Baz is coming with me. I’ll be fine, Mom, I promise,” I assure her.

She lets out a breath. “Ok, rosebud, I believe you. I love you, hon.”

“I love you, too. I’ll call you after I speak with the lawyer.” We finish saying our goodbyes and hang up. Just as I put my phone down, Baz places a plate of eggs and toast in front of me, kissing me on the temple and rubbing my shoulder. Before he can walk away, I grab him by the wrist and pull him close to me, my lips meeting his. It’s a quick kiss, and I can feel Baz smiling against my lips. 

“Thank you for being with me, love. I’m sorry you had to cut your visit to your parents’ short ‘cuz of me,” I whisper as I lean my forehead against his. 

He pulls away and brushes a curl away from my face. “I was coming home anyway. And I wouldn’t want you to be alone to deal with something like this.”

I nod at him and we proceed to eat our breakfast. Afterward, we pack lightly. I don’t plan on spending more than two days there. I never liked Boston. My mom was born and raised in Long Island, and I’ve never wanted to live too far from her and my gran. 

***

We’re making our way up I-90 in silence. I tend to get a little carsick on long rides, and I honestly don’t feel like talking much. I can’t wrap my head around what my dad could possibly want from me, what he could possibly want to leave me. He’s always been stingy with his child support, always paying the bare minimum, so don’t think he’d leave me money. 

I also don’t have a clue of what I could say about him at his funeral. I can only assume that the people attending were people who loved him, or at least looked up to him. I bet they’re expecting me to say something along the lines of how much I loved him, or how much of a great dad he was. 

But I  _ can’t.  _ I’m a horrible liar, I get all flustered and start to stammer like crazy. I can’t go up to the front of the room and spoon feed people the story they all want to hear, but I also can’t go up there and damage their illusion of who my dad was as a person. 

Baz’s hand is lightly rubbing his hand up and down my thigh, and it’s a comforting gesture. It’s grounding, to be honest, and it’s exactly what I need to bring me down to earth. I turn to him and examine his face, my eyes following the planes of his face, from his defined nose and beautiful arched brows and pouty lips. He’s beautiful, really. The human embodiment of elegance and grace.

“Did you call your mom?” I ask him to hopefully get my mind off my dad.

Baz turns to me and nods before turning back to the road. “I called her before you woke up. She said that my dad was still in a mood and was considering cutting me from the Grimm fortune.” He finishes with a scoff and eye roll. 

“What? That’s crazy, he can’t do that to do,” I argue. I’ve had it with shitty fathers at this point. 

He shrugs. “It’s fine really. The Pitch fortune is much grander, and I rely on my salary more than my trust fund anyways, so it wouldn’t affect me much if he tried to rid me from the Grimm family.”

“It still sucks that he wants to cut you off from the family just because you’re gay and like to teach. They shouldn’t exile you just because they don’t like something about you,” I huff. 

“If I’m being honest, I don’t really mind. I’ve never sympathized much with the Grimm family, and I’ve never liked them much. I won’t miss them, and they certainly won’t miss me.” He looks at me with a sympathetic look. “It’s fine, Simon. Really. I wouldn’t sacrifice the life I have now, the life I have with  _ you,  _ just to satisfy some conservative assholes.”

I smile at him and put my hand over his where it’s still resting on my thigh. “I wish I could be as brave as you when it comes to this stuff.”

“It’s not about bravery. It’s about putting your own needs before everyone else’s. It’s alright to be a little selfish sometimes.” I smile at him and nod in agreement. We spend the rest of the drive in silence, me idly playing with Baz’s fingers the whole time. 

When we enter the funeral home, there is a large crowd of people gathered by the entrance of a viewing room. 

“Are these people… are they all here for my dad?” I whisper as I look around the room. Baz peers towards the easel with a letter board on it.

“‘ _ David Harris, Viewing Room 2’.  _ I would suppose these people are all here for him,” Baz says. 

“Weird. I didn’t even know he knew this many people. I guess it makes sense though, he had an entire life without me,” I sigh. Baz looks at me with a sympathetic look. 

“Do you wanna go in now?” He asks me. 

I take a deep breath and nod.  __

BAZ

Simon looks entirely out of his element as we walk into the room. He’s an all-around confident person, not one to shy away from a challenge, but seeing him walk into this room makes him almost unrecognizable. His shoulders are hunched in, as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He keeps on biting his bottom lip, nervously looking around the room, trying to recognize someone. He keeps on running his hands through his hair then patting it down, as if to not look too disheveled. I’m sure if I wasn’t holding his hand he’d be pulling and pinching the skin of his elbows like he usually does when he’s anxious. 

I lean closer to him and whisper, “If you wanna leave, just let me know and we’ll go immediately, okay? Just say the word.”

He turns and gives me a reassuring smile, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. We walk around the room, pushing through small crowds. I’m not entirely sure where Simon is leading me. I assume he’s looking for the lawyer who called him, but neither of us know what he looks like. 

I’m studying the room when Simon comes to a stop, and I realize where we’re standing. We’re right in front of his father’s casket. An  _ open  _ casket.

His father looks different than I imagined. He’s paler than Simon, but that’s probably because he’s dead and embalmed, so I can’t really judge on that. He looks thin, probably as a result of his illness. I look around the room, and my eyes land on a portrait of Simon’s father set on an easel and adorned with flowers. The man in the picture looks like he’d be nice, which probably explains why there’s so many people at this service right now. I can definitely see the similarities between him and Simon. Simon clearly gets his strong jaw and bone structure from his father, and his curls are a clear mix of Lucy’s soft blonde and his father’s light brown hair. I’m happy to know that there aren’t as many prominent similarities between Simon and hIs father as there are between him and his mom. I feel like it would be worse for him to look himself in the mirror and see the person who hurt him the most. 

Simon’s grip is strong in my hand as he stares at his father. His eyes are starting to water, and I feel like he’s starting to get lost in his own head. 

“Alright, love?” I ask him. He sniffles and nods. 

“It’s a shame, really. He left us too fast,” a voice starts next to us. Simon blinks out of his reverie and turns to the man standing next to him. He’s a short man, with round glasses and and whispy brown hair, wearing a dark brown business suit. 

“You must be Simon Salisbury,” He says as he extends his hand forward. “Frederick Dumaine, we spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, right, um, nice to meet you,” Simon responds as he shakes his hand.

“And who is this?” Frederick asks as he looks up at me expectantly. 

Simon turns towards me as if he forgot I was here and then turns back to Frederick. “Oh, um, this is, um. This is my… Baz,” he stumbles over his words nervously. I extend my hand towards Frederick.

“I’m Simon’s boyfriend. Basilton. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say as he shakes my hand. He looks me and Simon up and down, catching a glimpse of our intertwined hands and then looking at us with remnants of shock on his face. 

“Oh, well, Davy never mentioned you had a boyfriend,” Frederick stammers. Simon huffs a nervous laugh. 

“Is it a problem, Mr. Dumaine?” I retort.

“No! No, not at all!” He exclaims when he catches on to what I’m implying. “Well, Mr. Salisbury, if you don’t mind, we’re ready for you whenever you are.”

“Ready for what?” Simon asks.

“For you to speak, remember? I’m pretty sure I mentioned this over the phone.”

Simon shakes his head and lets go of my hand. “Oh yeah, right. I’m ready.” He follows Mr. Dumaine towards a small speaking stand at the front of the room. I go towards the side of the room where I’m sure he’ll see me. Frederick introduces Simon, and then Simon steps behind the podium, looking nervous as ever. 

“Um, hi everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Simon. I,uh, I’m Davy’s son,” he starts. I can hear the resentment in his voice when he mentions his father, and I wish I could just go up to him and pull him away from the stand. He fumbles around with his fingers, and I can already tell he’s cursing himself for not writing some note cards in advance. “Um, my father was an… accomplished man. I remember when I was a kid, he spent, I wanna say, eighty percent of his time in his office. He was always a hardworking man, as much as I can remember. I,” he pauses and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I never spent a lot of time with him as a kid. Come to think of it, I don’t have that many fond memories of him. The only good thing I remember is him teaching me how to play the guitar. But a kid should have more happy memories with his father, right? But I don’t. And I can’t stand up here and spoon feed you lies.”

A quiet gasp fills the room. I look around and see people whispering at each other, and I can’t help but feel proud of Simon. 

He runs his hand through his hair before continuing. “There’s this picture in my childhood home. My mom keeps it hidden at the bottom of a box that’s on the top shelf of the closet in the hallway leading to the living room. It’s a box of all the stuff my dad left at the house when he left us. The picture is him cradling me as a baby. I couldn’t have been more than a year old. To any random person, he looks normal, like a new father who hasn’t slept well in a while. But to someone who knew him, you could see it in his eyes that he didn’t enjoy the life he was living. 

“I’m sure Davy was a wonderful person with you people, or else I can’t possibly imagine why there're so many people here right now. But with me, growing up, he was quite the opposite. He was always distant with me and my mom, he never seemed to really care about what was going on in our lives. He was always wrapped up in his own world, mumbling to himself and being distant even in his own home. 

“I don’t like considering him my father. A father is someone who supports you, who teaches you basic skills while growing up. A father is someone who teaches you how to ride a bike, who cheers you on even though you suck at sports, who builds you up instead of pushing you down. I never got the support I needed from my father.”

Tears start steadily flowing down his face. “I could tell he was disappointed in me when I started showing more interest in art than sports or video games as a child. Davy hurt me both physically and emotionally throughout my entire life. He left a lasting mark even long after he left. We were incapable of having one civilized conversation. The last time I spoke with him he called me slurs to the point where my boyfriend had to step in. 

“I’m sure you all expected me to stand here and tell you that he was a great man and that I praised the ground he walked on. But how can I feed you a sob story of what a great father he was when most of you don’t even know who I am? There are probably other people who would’ve been a better fit to speak at his funeral, but I’m only here because my father wanted me to say something and my morals kept me from refusing. 

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get the speech you expected, but I’m not sorry that you all were finally able to hear a little bit of truth about my father,” he finishes, ignoring the tears that are clinging to his chin. He walks away from the podium, the guests still in a stunned silence, and beelines to the door. I quickly follow after him. 

I find him near the home exit, leaning up against a wall with his hands covering his face, his breathing erratic. I make my way to him and immediately wrap him in my arms, running my hands up and down his back and through his hair in the comforting way I know he likes. 

“That felt so wrong, I just bashed him in front of an audience,” he sobs into my jacket. He pulls away, his face all red and puffy from crying. “Oh my god, Baz, I just insulted a dead man.”

“Shh, love, it’s okay. You did amazing, you courageous fuck. You beautiful nightmare,” I console him, gently rubbing the tears off his cheeks and petting his hair off his forehead. “I’m actually kind of glad you spoke the truth. It was about time these people had their eyes opened.” 

He sniffles. “You think so?”

“I know so. Now, c’mon, let’s go get you something to eat, I know you need it,’ I tell him as I start to lead him towards the door. 

“Wait! Mr. Salisbury!” Someone calls out from behind us. We turn to find Frederick running up to us. 

“Mr. Dumaine, I don’t think now’s the right time,” I say, trying to stop him. 

“Look, I know you’re grieving-”

“I’m not  _ grieving, _ ” Simon mumbles beside me. I try not to laugh.

“But we still have to discuss your father’s will. He left quite a bit in your name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad news folks, but i kinda wanna put a wrap on this story :/ i feel like im not really writing much plot which is kinda why it takes me so long to push out chapters. ive got maybe two or three more chapters left in mind before its complete. i'm not quitting writing tho! ive actually got lots of ideas that i've started writing on the side, so there will hopefully be lots of content from me
> 
> that being said, here's an early thank you for sticking with me so far! knowing that there are people reading my silly little stories is really heartwarming. i love you all <3
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://junior-writes.tumblr.com/) !
> 
> let me know what you think! kudos and comments give me encouragement to keep writing :)


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